


Bring the Gasoline

by adventuresofmeghatron



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Abduction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Divergence, Childhood Trauma, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Home Invasion, Human Trafficking, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Immigration, Loss, Major Character Injury, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventuresofmeghatron/pseuds/adventuresofmeghatron
Summary: “Six months, huh? How much fast talking did you do to get here?”“Enough to keep me alive.”“Really? Cause you don’t act like that’s your goal half the time. Hell, you throw yourself at everything like you’re jumping off a cliff.”Sole survivor Natasha Sokolova is burning through friends faster than she can make them. Robert Joseph MacCready needs all the caps he can get. Problem is, the smooth-talking woman with a pistol and a job offer turns out to be more trouble than he’s counting on. They’re a match made in hell, but their little partnership might be the only thing that can see them through it.
Relationships: Robert Joseph MacCready & Female Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Sole Survivor
Comments: 128
Kudos: 62





	1. Desperate Measures

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome friends! Thank you for hopping aboard this ship with me. Step right this way for: banter, problematic protagonists, hope in spite of abject tragedy, characters recognizing and dealing with their trauma, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, slow burn, self-indulgent tropes, and eventually, a generous period of established relationship times (complete with a ride off into the sunset at the end). You'll also see some canon-divergence poking through the waves as we go, and dash of sexy times here and there (you'll get a heads up beforehand in case you'd rather stay below deck for those bits!)
> 
> As you can see, this story has a lot of variety to it! But, some things to keep in mind: this is not a fix-it fic. I can promise you a happy ending for our couple. But, as we know, the Fallout universe is inherently tragic. Our characters are a bit messy. That makes them fun, but also means they do stupid things sometimes. We will get to watch the consequences of those stupid things unfold. (With popcorn, if you want!)
> 
> This chapter contains alcohol use, allusions to consensual sexual activities between adults, and some Russian profanities.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha cuts a deal, and her losses.

There’s a man in her room.

Morning light slants in through the grimy window, setting her eyelids aglow with angry red hues. Natasha peels them open, and he’s the first thing she sees.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the ground with his back to her, humming some jazzy number beneath his breath. Must’ve caught it in his head somewhere. His voice cracks on the high note. Cute.

Before she can soak in the sight of him further, a second visitor comes knocking. Natasha groans, recoiling into the sheets. Throbbing, pulsing pain aches in her skull. The headache pounds away relentlessly.

Her companion doesn’t notice her discomfort, just keeps on murmuring his song and fidgeting with whatever’s got his hands occupied. It doesn’t take long for the tune to morph from a pleasant wake-up call into a nuisance buzzing against her ears. Nat groans softly into her pillow, which is just about as scratchy as her throat feels. Nat pries her eyes open again, forcing herself to take a good, long look at this stranger who might not be such a stranger after all.

Streaks of dirt dull the sandy brown of his hair when he runs his fingers through it. Incidentally, those hands are _also_ filthy, but what’s _not_ in the wasteland? She can’t quite catch his face from this angle. His shoulders shelter whatever he’s so hard at work on, too. Which can’t be much; he’s a bit of a scrawny, lanky thing. Even so, she can see the roll and flex of muscle in his arms, poking out from the oversized green shirt he’s got tucked in to his torn-up khakis. String bean or not, this guy could probably break her in half with one hand tied behind his back. 

But he wouldn’t have to, because now she’s glimpsed what’s swallowed up his focus: a rifle, cradled across his lap like a baby. Tenderly, he swipes a cloth across the barrel. All the while cooing that song that’s... _so_ familiar…

The gun’s not aimed _her_ way. Yet. There’s still time to puzzle through whether he’s friend, or foe, or...the other ‘f’ word. Gingerly, Nat lifts the rough sheets to peer down at her own body, fully-clothed, and fully intact, give or take a few mysterious leg bruises.

His voice catches again, chasing her fleeting memories with it. They swim and mingle in her brain, swaying flimsy with the room as the waves of vertigo crash and roil.

Goodneighbor. The Third Rail. Nick. Magnolia. The high notes. The headache slams its fist against her forehead.

__________________________

Nick Valentine smacks his hand against the bar. Whiskey spills sticky over the sides of her glass. “That’s _it!_ ”

“Nick, let’s just talk about this.”

“You and I are done talking!”

He looms over her shoulder while Natasha stays seated. Idly, she watches the ice bob and dissolve in the alcohol. Sooner or later, Nick will fizzle out, too. He always does. She gnaws at the inside of her cheek.

Sudden brightness flickers through the dim haze of the Third Rail, glinting off the edge of her glass. A spotlight bathes the corner stage in blue. Beneath its halo, a woman in red draws the eye of every drifter packed into the hollowed out husk of the old subway station. The voice curling from the microphone is smooth and sultry. Nat can practically taste its richness as the drink slides sweet through her lips. When she swallows, there’s a nip of fire at the back of her throat that flares in time with the saxophone melody pouring from the speakers.

“Look at you!” Nick fumes. “Shit’s hitting the fan, and you can’t even be bothered to pay attention! Don’t you have anything smart to say?”

“You said we were done talking.”

When she goes to sip, Nick’s hand covers the cup and shoves it back down. Eyes peel their way, snatched by the sound of the glass grating over the wood of the countertop. Nat’s dark eyes flash to Valentine. She curls her hand tighter around her drink. Nick doesn’t let go. 

Nat waits until the prying stares pull back to the glimmer of the songstress swaying on stage.

“Okay, Nick,” she hisses, “let’s _talk_. Let’s talk about what everyone told me when I came to Diamond City.”

“That’s not--”

“‘Nicky’s good people’ they said. ‘If anyone can help you find your son, it’s him’.”

“Natasha, enough!”

“After I fished you out of that vault, you told me you would do what you could to help me. So I guess my only question is: who was lying? Everybody, or just you?”

Nick’s face twists beneath the hard edge of her glare. “I’m not playing this game with you.”

“I could’ve walked away,” Nat presses sharper. “I could’ve left you to rust. But I didn’t. You can walk away, too, Nick. Maybe. But if you can, well, that says more about you than me.”

Nick’s hand grows lax, and she wins their tug-of-war. She cradles the drink to her chest, peering at the last shards of ice sinking to the bottom. Time to sink Nick, too, and douse this petty routine.

“I know you’re not a liar, Valentine. So don’t make yourself one.”

“No,” Nick rasps. “You’ve got that job pretty damn well covered.”

Nat scowls. That defiant little shred of ice is floating back to the top of her whiskey. The only thing that’s sinking is inside her chest. Nick doesn’t spare her the space to try again.

“I’ve met a lot of scum in my line of work. People I wouldn’t throw to the bloatflies. You had me convinced you were a good person. Maybe you still are, but hell, you’re not acting like it. What happened with Piper crossed a line. What you pulled with Kellogg crossed a line. Then, the Glowing Sea...three strikes and I’m out, kid. You go after that courser, you and everyone you drag with you is gonna wind up dead!”

The words slap against the sudden silence at the close of Magnolia’s song. Chair legs scrape against the tile. Keenly, without turning, Natasha feels the stares of every drifter in the Third Rail fix to their faces.

Beneath the blaze of Valentine’s hawk-eyed glare, they sheepishly recoil to the murmur of their own conversations. Still, a sticky few stay latched hungrily to the sight of her blue and gold vault suit and the Pip-Boy glowing on her wrist.

Whitechapel Charlie hovers like an angry wasp. “If you two are bloody well done--”

“Don’t worry, Charlie,” Nick sighs. “I was just leaving.”

Nick’s hand rests briefly on her shoulder. Nat shrugs him off. “Go, then.”

“For what it’s worth...I really hope you find him. I’d tell you to try not to get yourself killed, but why would you start listening now?”

She doesn’t watch when he goes. Nick’s footsteps fade into the fog of smoke and music. The ache he leaves in her chest morphs into the burn of alcohol in her throat. 

She tugs the band from her hair, letting red-brown waves fall around her face. Tomorrow, she’ll ditch the vault suit. Blend in. 

The thought itches like a rash on her brain: _you could still go after him. He can’t have gone far_.

She doesn’t. The only thing she chases is the bottom of the glass in front of her.

__________________________

No, no...that’s not right. Nick left nearly two weeks ago. Natasha massages her temples, trying to ease the dizzy dance of the room back into stillness. Her stomach’s still rolling over on itself like its gunning for a trophy in gymnastics. Probably for the best that she hasn’t tried to open her mouth yet. 

In any case, her mystery man wasn’t there the night that Nick left. She’s sure of it. Eyes that blue could cut through any crowd. From her horizontal view and heavy-lidded gaze, she watches him rise from his place on the floor, lay his rifle carefully, _reverently_ across the table near the foot of her bed, and seat himself there. He kicks his feet up on the bed frame, which gives a tired, metallic moan in response. A moment later, she hears the soft sputter of a lighter, followed by the smoky-sweet scent of a cigarette filling her nose. 

He’s still humming that same tune. The light clicks on in her mind’s eye. That song belongs to--

__________________________

“--Magnolia, sweetheart.” The songstress drawls, sinking into a seat beside her. “Well, now you know me. Wouldn’t mind getting to know you.”

Nat swirls her drink with her finger, and when the other woman’s eyes drip down her body, she brings it to her lips and sucks away the sweetness. 

There’s a heat in Magnolia’s gaze when she looks back up. She tilts her head, humming thoughtfully. “You look so blue, kitten. What’s the matter? Didn’t like my song?”

Blue. It’s been a while since anybody called her that. Nat ditched the vault suit the day after Valentine left. It’s still crumpled at the bottom of her bag where she shoved it, next to the holotape and Piper’s article. Instead, she’d bartered for faded jeans and a threadbare flannel. Not much in the way of saving her from bullets, but the change provided some camouflage from the watchers clinging to the edge of every alley, sizing up easy marks. Hancock might’ve saved her once, but she hasn’t seen him since.

Nobody’s coming to save her now. Nat sways in her seat. 

Before Natasha can answer, there’s a soft hand stroking hair from the side of her face, tucking it safely behind her ear. “Sweetheart,” Magnolia breathes, “you are way too pretty to be so lonesome.”

Natasha leans into the warmth of Magnolia’s palm against her cheek. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

__________________________

“Hey, look who’s finally awake.”

His voice cracks through her reverie. She sucks in a breath, eyes darting for a quick scan of the room. Anything that could place his face or pluck his name out of the depths of drunken stupor. The room is familiar: one bed, a dresser with tilted drawers hanging ajar, wood panel floors that look as if some animal uses them for a scratching post. The only real spot of color belongs to a crooked painting of a kitten. Its blue eyes gleam murderously against the stark white of its fur. A ball of twine lies tangled in its claws. 

Natasha wrinkles her nose. The stench of dampness hangs like a cloud in the air. Water drips from the stain blossoming on the ceiling down to the bucket in the corner.

So they’d crashed at the Hotel Rexford after a drunken night at the Third Rail. Unless Goodneighbor had suddenly sprouted another watering hole worth visiting. But nothing could hold a candle to Magnolia’s music. Which was _playing_ that night, in the background when she’d met--

Natasha’s eyes flit to the stranger, who’s peering at her curiously. “Hey...Mac?”

His smirk fades to a slight scowl. He’s ruffled, but he doesn’t correct her. A nickname, then. But what’s the real one? MacIntosh? MacMillan? Mac...something. In any case, there’s still another mystery that needs solving.

“We didn’t... _you know_...right?”

His scowl deepens. “No! Of course not!”

Nat arches a brow. “ _Of course_ not?”

“I’m a _professional._ I’d like to keep things that way.”

A professional _killer_ by the looks of it. He’s been lining up ammo on the desk, counting in rows of ten. The metal shells shimmer in the muted light drifting in from the window. There’s a pistol holstered at his hip, but she saw the way he held that rifle. Apparently, Natasha had hired herself a sniper.

A sniper who’s fixed unwavering sights on her, with a look of suspicious malcontent scrunching up his face. “Hey, what happened to your accent?”

“My... _what_?”

Mac sighs tightly. “Last night you...crap, you don’t even remember, do you?”

“I remember fine,” she says indignantly. Slipping from the shelter of the blankets, Nat pads over to her bag in the corner, feeling a twinge of relief to find it’s still there. Slowly, she opens it and begins to rummage through. His eyes track after her motions. The smugness slips back into place in his smirk. It must _live_ there, Nat realizes. A cocksure grin and smart mouth might be his default state. Fine by her. She’d take snark over righteousness any day.

He rises from the chair and saunters over to her with arms crossed over his chest. “What’s my name then?”

Nat scoffs. “Your name’s Mac.”

He rolls his eyes in response. “Look, Lady--”

“Lady? You don’t know my name either!”

“Sure I do. It’s...Nancy...Soliloquy or something like that.”

His smirk fades as Nat looks up at him. Nat cracks first, but her laughter sucks him in with her. She’s wiping tears from her eyes by the time her breath settles. 

“Something like that,” Nat agrees. “Natasha Sokolova.” She stands, offering him her hand.

He shakes it. “MacCready. You know, that name of yours is kind of a mouthful. Think I’ll just stick with ‘Boss’.”

Nat shrugs. “Blame my parents, I guess.”

“So you’re...not really Russian then?”

“I _am_ ,” Nat laughs nervously. “What kind of question is that?”

“Well,” MacCready rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Last night you talked about your family, how they used to be KGB. And you _sounded_ different. You scared the _crap_ out of Winlock and Barnes. Even Whitechapel Charlie was on about it, something about debt collectors.”

 _The real KGB always collect on their debts_ was what Charlie had said, as she leaned on the bar, slurring in the worst Russian accent she could possibly conjure. It’s what he said to her moments before she grabbed MacCready by the collar and dared him to sneak them out of there without Charlie noticing. Without paying her tab.

What did it matter, after all: Charlie had just given her a job. He could shave it off the top when _she_ came to collect. What did it matter if she only had five caps left to her name? She’d pressed the rest of them into the palms of MacCready. She’d make it all back twofold after they ran that job, and then the mayor would owe her a favor, too.

A job. Yes, a job for Hancock. A job she had no business taking. _Oh...shit._

____________________________

The smooth swell of a saxophone flows from the speakers as Natasha curls her hand around the empty bottle. The air down here tastes like ashes. Red light glimmers off the tile lining the old subway station walls. It shimmers like cinders through the ever-present mesh of smoke drifting through the Third Rail.

The evening’s songstress carries them to the end of her performance with deep, velvety tones. When the tune comes to a close, it's met with a spattering of applause. Natasha smirks, joining in halfheartedly. Personally speaking, she’s a bigger fan of Mag’s high notes. To each their own.

 _I’ll be thinking of you when I’m up on that stage,_ Mags said after. Sweet of her to say. But thoughts and prayers don’t mean shit, and Nat has had her fill of them. What she needs is a plan. And another drink.

Natasha taps her empty bottle on the edge of the counter. Whitechapel Charlie swivels her way. While he’s finding her another fix of the skunky bathwater that passes for beer in this century, Nat finds the folded blade in her pocket. She flips open the knife, passing it restlessly between her fingers. The tip pricks her skin, drawing a bead of blood from her thumb. She grits out a hiss.

“Playing with sharp toys is a quick way to lose your fingers, Guv.” Charlie chides her lazily. 

Nat clicks the knife shut and stows it back in her pocket. The cool curve of the beer in her palm serves to soothe the throb where the blade nicked her. “Good thing I’m not playing then, right Charlie?”

“Yes, that was quite a show you gave us the other night. Don’t think No-Nose will come crawling ‘round your corner again. Best you don’t go sticking yourself in hers, either.”

“You think her guy would’ve killed me, or was he just here for the caps?”

“I reckon it was the caps you swindled out of her hands that had her grasping. Might’ve made a go at that clever mouth while he was at it.”

“If Bobbi wanted to pin blame, she could’ve just checked a mirror. She’s the one who paid me in advance.”

“Right. For a job you never bothered to do.”

“Why show up if I already got paid?” Nat shrugs, sipping the bitter beer with a wince. 

Maybe burning bridges with Bobbi wasn’t her finest move. But what’s the haggard ghoul good for besides a pile of caps? Once that was in the bag, it was time to move on to greener pastures. Bigger lakes with bigger fish. In Goodneighbor, there was only one fish that really mattered: Mayor Hancock.

It’s been nearly two weeks since Nick took off. Without his constant critique in her ears, she’d managed to keep them peeled to the locals. She’d listened, and she’d learned.

For starters, Bobbi No-Nose was desperate for hired hands to dig bodies out of her basement. Or, something like that. Desperate enough to put caps in the hands of a promising stranger. Second, Bobbi was on Hancock’s shit list. Which meant Nat needed to take care to wipe her hands of the stench lest their fates tangle too closely. 

Instead, Bobbi sent a lackey to tangle for her. Nat’s fingers trace the outline of the knife in her pocket. She didn’t blink, didn’t think. The second the hand clamped down on her arm, the blade was in her hand and in his ribs. Not enough to kill the guy. Just enough to send a message.

“Well, I do hope you’ve worked that out of your system,” Charlie drawls. “My client won’t suffer nearly so gracefully as Miss No-Nose.”

Nat tilts her head. “Oh?”

“What do you say, Guv? It’s a dirty job for a dirty girl.”

“You’re such a charmer, _Charles._ ”

“Are you interested, or not?”

“All right. I’ll bite.” Nat’s fingers knit together in her lap. She takes another swig to keep them from fidgeting.

When Nat had woken to the wasteland nearly six months ago, she’d stumbled into a world so radically changed from the one she knew, it seemed nearly impossible to find her footing. But the longer she roamed the ruins of the old world, the more she saw its reflection in the trappings of the new one.

The Third Rail is the closest thing she’s found to a church on this side of the apocalypse. There’s the little abbey in Diamond City, where lost souls go to sit and think and pray. But none of those sad faces knew what to pray for, or who to pray to. It wasn’t a church at all; churches claimed to have all those answers, in her experience.

Whitechapel Charlie presides over it all with the charm of a rusted can of cram. Drifters file in for their nightly worship. Sing praises at Magnolia’s behest. Drink deep from their cups and breath in their hints of heaven through their pipes.

It can’t be a coincidence, the aura of authority that Charlie wields over this place. Or the careful way he’s let her have her games, watching, _observing_ even though he sees through every single ploy. But he has to be the brawn, not the brains. And who better to have a hand in the sacred space of the people than the man who claims he’s all for them?

If she hadn’t seen him in all his colonial glory, Nat might not believe Hancock was _real_ . A man like that could cause a real problem for his enemies. A real problem for _her_ enemies, maybe, if she plays her cards right. Hancock meant status, protection, and a goon squad. A horde of lackeys he might be convinced to set against the boogeyman of the Commonwealth. Step one would be to earn his favor, but the final play could be enough to get her to Shaun. _Come on, big fish._

Natasha huddles near as Charlie hands down the directive in a raspy murmur. “Three locations. Everyone inside. No witnesses.”

She leans back in her seat, burying the lump in her throat with another swig of beer. “Wow. Love the vote of confidence.”

“No need to flatter yourself, Guv. You’re a fresh face is all. They’ll never see you coming.”

Three warehouses. No survivors. No witnesses. Bullets for every one of them.

It’s not the _people_ part that’s the problem. It would’ve been better if it was. It would make more sense. Make it more...human. 

The past six months have been a blur of grenades and gunfire. At every turn, her quest for Shaun, for _answers,_ only found more roadblocks. Some of those obstacles shot at her. Some, she’d managed to shoot down. She could count those unfortunate souls on one hand. More frequently, a honeyed word in the right ear would fetch her what she needed. 

She could say no. One knife fight didn’t make her a...what, an assassin? But when would she have another chance at Hancock’s good graces? He’d made himself scarce since they first met. The sharks didn’t bother themselves with the lives of minnows. Except for the time when he stabbed that guy who sassed her at the front gate. But that was some flashy dominance thing. A wastelander’s welcome.

Maybe it isn’t even Hancock that she needs. But she needs...someone. Nick was right about one thing: going after the courser could be a quick way to die. So she has to find someone quicker. Someone sharper. Someone _better._

She catches her reflection in the amber bottle, frowning and forlorn. Shaun doesn’t _have_ someone better. Kellogg put a bullet through the chest of someone better, while she screamed and pounded on frosted glass. Helpless. Useless. Even with a gun in her hands, and a clear path to Kellogg’s skull, she knows now it would have ended all the same. There’s no reason for that cold, hard, truth to have suddenly shifted. 

It’s a bad bet. But it’s the only one left to take.

“Consider the job done.”

“I’ll consider it done when it’s actually done. And I’ll _know_ when it’s done.”

He moves to replace her empty beer. Nat holds up a hand. “Just the usual this time.”

“You’ve no taste,” Charlie snipes. “That was limited edition Gwinnett you were turning your nose at.”

“It tastes like garbage ran through a blender.”

“Here.”

Nat raises a brow as he passes a half-full bottle of vodka her way.

“What, like you won’t come slinking back in half an hour. I’ve other patrons to tend to. It’s not my lot in life to spend all my days babysitting you.”

“I love you, too, Charlie.”

“Fuck off. And don’t you forget your tab. If you try to cheat me, I can and will make life very short and miserable for you!”

Natasha leans back on the barstool, surveying her domain as Charlie leaves her to see to his. The bar is packed tight with faces that have slowly become familiar. Those same faces are familiar enough with hers to leave the corner seat at the far end from the stage open for her each night. Her stomach knots on the thought. The ripped up leather cushion tied loose over peeling wood is _home_ for now. It even came with a picket fence, partitioning off the rubble clogging the disused tunnel. 

With Charlie gone, Natasha feels her face fall with the spiral of her thoughts.

Three warehouses. No survivors. No witnesses. So...no explosions, either. Goodneighbor wouldn’t be getting the Corvega treatment. She’ll have to take another contingency plan for a spin.

Stealth is the only way to go. Might be enough to offset her little problem. Could go bright and early after a late night out. Catch them still faded, maybe even passed out if she was lucky. Sure would help if she knew the targets. But that was the magic, according to Charlie: they didn’t know her, either.

Natasha tugs the bottle towards her. Sure. Her plan might work better if she abstained. She could get up and go right now. Head back to the empty room. Or...

Across the crowd, Magnolia takes the stage once more. Their eyes meet. Nat raises her bottle to the songstress. The look that glistens back at her is so achingly full of pity, it turns her stomach sour. 

_No one’s coming to save you_. 

Her lips find drink, and her fingers find her knife. Again and again, she lets it roll through her grasp. Little cuts criss-cross over her knuckles, but by the time she looks up, she can scarcely feel the sting. 

The bottle’s lighter. So is the weight on her chest. Snippets of conversation drift to her here and there, in between the swell of Mag’s songs. No word from Bobbi after she doubled down on her big dig. Rumor was that she wouldn’t be speaking at all, here on out. Either she buried herself, or someone else had. The barest whisper of Hancock’s slipping grip is quickly shushed by the other voices around the table. More of those mercs came through earlier looking for MacCready something-or-other. They looked like Gunners.

Nat shifts in her seat. “Hey Charlie, did that sniper set up shop in the back like you said?”

“Sure. What of it? He’s damaged goods, Guv.”

“Yeah, aren’t we all. What’s his story?”

“Walked out on the Gunners. Anyone caught floundering around with his ilk is like to get themselves caught in the crossfire. That’s a feud you’d best stay out of.”

“The Gunners. They’re...good at what they do, right? At killing people, I mean.”

“Ask them yourself,” Charlie gestures past her shoulder. “Told you they don’t take kindly to freelance trespassers on their turf.”

A merc strung out for work and cornered by some bullies. A _sniper_ , no less. If he was worth the title, she wouldn’t find steadier hands. He wasn’t the big fish she was hoping for, but maybe a catch nonetheless.

Maybe the sniper in question would be grateful enough to whoever shooed off those bothersome thugs and offered him a job that he’d do it for...well, she only had a hundred fifty caps left. One fifty-five, to be precise. 

Natasha gulps down another swig of liquor. Nevermind Charlie. He can take his precious tab off the top of her pay when the job is done. Desperate times, desperate measures. 

She stumbles when she stands. For one, perilous moment, the whole earth slides slippery beneath her feet. Nat holds her arms out until the room finally rights itself. “Hey Charlie,” she slurs, “ _watch this_.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m sure I don’t _want_ to!”

Nat grins wickedly, running hands through the waves of her auburn hair to tousle it. She spots a battered leather jacket hanging from the seat next to her. Its owner is nowhere to be seen. Not hers, but it is now. She slides into the sleeves, pausing to admire the scuffs over the pockets. Perfect. Kellogg’s pistol in her grip, bottle in the other hand, she staggers towards the back room. One more swig. The lights blur together into neon smears as she goes.

“You get blood on the tile again, you’ll be scrubbing it!” Charlie’s last warning dissolves into the muted noise of Mag’s song. She can’t make out the words this far away, only the tune. It buzzes sweet on the back of her brain like the fizz of carbonation. Rougher voices cut the sugary sound. Nat lurks by the corner, peering past its edge.

 _That’s_ MacCready?

A brown duster hangs off his shoulders and drags to the floor in tatters. Looks like it’s been mauled by mongrels. Maybe it was. There’s padding in the shoulders, filling out his spindly frame. His eyes are pretty, though. Gorgeous, even. He leans back casually, arms crossed without a care in the world. The two towering men looming over him haven’t stolen the smugness from his face. 

“So,” MacCready drawls, “should we take this outside?”

She lets the wall have her weight while she bides her time, taking care to stay pressed close to the cool concrete. The chill seeps pleasantly across her flushed cheek. Her eyes trail down the two beefy bodies, and the third leaner one. At a guess, the larger man with lips pressed and fists balled by his side is the muscle, and his comrade with the undercut is the mouthpiece. Whether that muscle has any bite remains to be seen. She catches the glint of metal fillings off his sneer. Probably _toothless._ Nat presses her mouth to her sleeve to bury her own snicker. 

With only a glance, it’s clear Undercut and Toothless are part of the same club. They wear the same salvaged military fatigues with piecemeal leather armor. Seems like MacCready might’ve kept parts of the uniform, too. Beneath the shredded duster, his clothes are army green. All around, pistols hang heavy off their waists.

“It ain’t like that. I’m just here to deliver a message,” Undercut barks back.

“In case you forgot, I left the Gunners for good!”

“Yeah, we heard you, MacCready. But you’re still taking jobs in the Commonwealth. That isn’t going to work for us.”

They leer a little closer, teeth and egos bared, eyes burning holes where they dream of sinking bullets. Natasha peels from the wall, slinking forward without a sound. Gulping down one more taste of liquid courage, she musters the thickest Russian moxie her _Mamockha_ ever hurled her way and rounds on the Gunners. Between the shadow of their shoulders, MacCready’s eyes meet hers and his go wide. She fights down a smile, winking his way before fixing her face into the cold curl of a scowl. Toothless and Undercut turn slowly towards her, steaming.

Armed with the pistol and her accent, she levels them both their way. “These _suki_ bothering you, MacCready?”

“The fuck is this?” Undercut glares between Nat and MacCready. “You quit the Gunners and hire some Soviet to protect you?”

“I do the hiring,” Nat steps in before MacCready’s gaping mouth can ruin her ploy. “He works for me.”

Toothless seizes his moment, stepping forward to shroud her in his shadow. “And who the hell do you think you are?”

“The woman who’s about to wipe the floor with you two _ublyudki!_ ”

Undercut scoffs. “What, you? You’re a toothpick! Snap you right in half, sweetheart.”

The liquor rushing in her blood has left her body numb and pulsing. Something sharp cracks through her at the jab. A jolt of inspiration.

Natasha holsters the gun at her hip. In one fluid motion, she steps chin to chin with Undercut and flips the pocket knife open to his throat.

“ _Ty che, suka, o’khuel blya?!_ My family was KGB. I learned how to kill before I knew how to write. You’ve got one more chance to decide how this goes.”

It’s the most ridiculous lie. She feels it burn and crash into the pit in her stomach. If they have a single brain cell between them, the Gunners will see her ploy for what it is. Undercut’s eyes are blown wide. They dart towards his partner, and flicker, just briefly, with fear. Nat raises her bet.

“Trust me,” she breathes, letting the threat fan across his face. “You don’t want to make a mess in _Hancock’s_ town.”

When his bottom lip starts quivering, she knows she's found the magic word. A smile blooms over her face. She staggers back from him, tucking the blade back in her pocket.

“Come on, Barnes,” Undercut growls. He shoots one last look towards MacCready, but his parting glare is all for her. 

Natasha oversees their exit with another taste of vodka. As the liquor burns her inside her throat, MacCready’s gaze sears against her cheek. She shrugs his way with a sheepish smirk. His mouth is still climbing back from the floor. He fumbles for words as he rubs the back of his neck.

“Uh...thanks?” 

She keeps the accent. “You’re welcome. Fuckers sounded like they had it coming.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” MacCready groans. “Don’t need the stench of those two idiots scaring off my business.”

“Yeah, looks like it’s _really_ hopping back here.” Nat sips from her bottle while her eyes swipe across the empty, sagging sofas around them. He bristles at the implication. Annoyance ripples through his face. Nothing a stroke of the ego can’t fix. She gestures towards the rifle beside him. “You any good with that?”

Immediately, his demeanor shifts. A cocky, crooked grin pulls on the corners of his lips. “Here I was thinking you’d heard of me already. If you had, you’d know I’m the best shot in the Commonwealth.”

“That right? Because I just had to swoop in and save you from those big bad bullies.”

He scoffs. “Smart talking and name-dropping only get you so far, darlin’. When it comes down to bullets flying, you want somebody who actually knows what they’re doing.”

She studies him with narrowed eyes, leaning against the wall as she does. Even beneath the guise of her alter ego, he’s managed to snag on something real. Something _weak_ . Maybe it was the way she held the gun, or the stagger in her step, or the slur in her speech. Her tricks fooled Winlock and Barnes. But not MacCready, not all the way. _Guess it means those eyes are sharp, after all._

His smirk only widens beneath her scrutiny. “Look, lady, if you’re preaching about the Atom, or looking for a friend, you’ve got the wrong guy. If you need a hired gun, and it sounds like maybe you do, then we can talk.”

 _Fuck_ friends. If this guy is half as good as he claims to be, the job for Hancock will be a cakewalk. 

“You’re hired,” she decides, offering her bottle. “You drink?”

MacCready coughs a laugh. “Don’t get too excited, we haven’t even talked price yet. Not sure you can afford me.” 

Despite his snark, he takes her offering. Calloused fingers brush briefly over hers on the neck of the bottle as he pulls it from her grasp. Nat’s eyes flicker down. There’s dirt in the beds of his fingernails, grime rubbed over his knuckles. Angry red crosshatches decorate hers: battle wounds from her failed knife tricks. She feels his eyes on her again when he leans the lip of the glass to his mouth and drinks deep.

“It’s a job for _Hancock_. Three hundred caps, and you’d get half the pot. We can talk base pay.”

Her magic word does the trick. There’s a flicker of light in his eyes when he passes the liquor back to her. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He shakes his head with a faint smile.

“Lady, who the hell are you?”

Nat feels the surge of victory soar inside of her. Or maybe that’s the floor rushing to meet her face. For a moment, the world is a blur of faded red light. Then, rough hands reach out to steady her. Nat sways in MacCready’s grasp. 

There’s something about his eyes blown wide that kicks up laughter in her stomach. It feels like tossing piles of leaves in autumn, the way it billows on her breath. She loops an arm around his neck, tugging him with her towards the bar.

“I’m _Naskalova_ and I’m the last real KGB! Now let’s talk _dissssscount_ …”

__________________________

The rest of the evening is a faded blur. Natasha catches glimpses of it with each pulse of pressure through her forehead. Somewhere in that mess of memories, she recalls passing MacCready the rest of her caps beneath Whitechapel Charlie’s steely stare. And then...ordering a round of all of her friends. The whole bar.

“Just put it on my tab, Charlie,” Nat said as she swayed in her seat. She nudged MacCready. “Me and Charles go way back,” she told him. In a whisper louder than the music, she added, “Charlie’s KGB too!”

“I’ll kindly remind you, Guv, that the _real_ KGB always collect on their debts. And their bar tabs.”

Sputtering a laugh, she’d leaned across the bar, swiped the cloth from behind the counter, and wiped a smear from Charlie’s metal body. “ _Tovarisch,_ you worry too much. It’ll give you wrinkles. I’m sure what’s owed will be paid.” 

Not minutes later, she seized MacCready and dared him to sneak them out from under Charlie’s nose. He’d laughed, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from drink. “Oh, you and I are gonna have fun.”

Nat groans, dropping back to the edge of the bed. The mattress sags beneath her weight, uttering a flimsy whine that twinges sharply through her temples. For now, at least, the fun part is over. She _would_ pay Charlie back...eventually.

MacCready’s shadow falls over her. She squints up at him. “I hope you're at least half as good as you said you were.”

“Don’t you worry about me, darlin’. If anything, I should be skeptical about you. You mean _any_ of that crap you spewed last night?”

“My family weren’t KGB. They...sold flowers.”

“Seems like a bad way to make a living. But, whatever. Doesn’t really matter as long as you remember the important parts.”

The important parts being his caps. “I remember,” she mumbles. “One hundred fifty caps base, which I’ve _already_ paid you, plus half the cut from the job for Hancock.”

“ _And_ half a cut on any other jobs he throws your way after. You do have that rocket launcher we talked about, right?”

Nat narrows her eyes his way.“The _what?_ ”

“Relax,” he snickers. “ I’m just messing with you. Here, this should help with the hangover.”

 _Ouch._ Nat grimaces, rubbing her forehead. The scrape glass against wood grates on her brain. She looks up. MacCready’s set a bottle on the bedside table. She reaches for it hesitantly.

“This is _beer_.”

“Good to know your eyesight’s still good even though your memory’s crap. Gonna need your best aim if we’re doing this without witnesses. Need to move quick and fast, dead the runners before they can get the word out to the other warehouses. You said you’d worked with Hancock before?”

She suppresses a scoff, coaxing her face into a blank canvas. It’s not a lie, per se. If the wasteland definition of working with someone includes them shanking a guy in front of you. “Sure did. This is supposed to be some political thing for him.”

“Works for me,” MacCready grunts, packing up the ammo he’d laid out on the desk. “As long as there’s caps at the end.”

Caps again. Must be another magic word. Might be for any mercenary; Nat’s experience with his kind is limited. But there’s a hungry look on his face at the mere mention of the crude currency. Nat bookmarks the thought for later. An easy carrot to lead him with if she finds herself lacking a stick. 

Of course, one would need to have caps in order to promise them to someone. Nat routes through her pack, plucking out the five measly caps that remain to her name, and the sparse ammo buried beneath her clothes. There was no buying more, now. Kellogg’s pistol and her salvaged shotgun would need to see her through the day. She shoos MacCready out of the room long enough to pull on different clothes. When he reappears, she’s strapping weathered leather armor to her shoulders. It’s not much. But it’ll have to do. 

She’s placed her bet on MacCready. No changing hands now. With any luck, he’ll prove to be a worthwhile investment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might have noticed, our protagonist is a bit troubled. She does cringey things sometimes. Lot to unpack there. And oh boy, will we be unpacking!
> 
> Please feel free to leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed, or if you're looking forward to reading more! I'm @adventuresofmeghatron on Tumblr in case you'd like to connect or ramble with me about Fallout/writing/etc. I promise I don't bite :)
> 
> I aim to update roughly bimonthly, but in general, I want to be edited at least one chapter ahead. I'm polishing up chapter two soon, and will post once I have a new draft for chapter three. The benefit to having rough-drafted a year prior to posting is that even with significant revisions, I have a good base to work with in terms of speeding up the editing process.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading <3


	2. It's Not Heaven You're Falling From

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready has a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Besides the typical violence one might see in the Fallout video games, this chapter contains specific references/description of vomiting and an impalement injury (and the addressing of said injury). Proceed with care.

It’s missing. 

He’s checked pockets, his bag, every fold of fabric in his coat. Even beneath the bed, when his new boss was busy taming her hair in a cracked mirror. It’s nowhere to be found.

MacCready chews at the inside of his lip. Another pass through his things turns up empty. Well, not entirely empty. He counts his caps one more time for good measure. Now he knows he wasn’t robbed. He tucks the toy soldier back in its place, cushioned between his clean clothes. When the boss ushers him outside so she can change, he takes comfort in the smokes that tumbled out during his search. 

In the long corridor on the upper floor of the Hotel Rexford, he leans against the peeling yellowed wallpaper, breathing deep to soothe his nerves. MacCready scratches his head, combing over the past few weeks in his mind.  _ When was the last time you had it? _

Not since Daisy’s, he decides. Had to be about a week ago, now. He remembers weaving through the throng of ghouls and drifters, fighting his way to the counter, and the crinkle of Daisy’s smile when she saw him. Bless her heart. That woman is nothing short of an angel. Without her, he never would’ve gotten his foot in the door. Hancock hates the Gunners. MacCready doesn’t blame him.

But Daisy knew him before he was a Gunner, and vouched for him once he left that life behind. That simple kindness paved the way for his fresh start. So when she pressed the crinkled paper into his hands, fresh mail off a recent caravan, MacCready felt hope swell inside his chest for the first time in...well, it’d been a while. 

Nothing put a smile on his face like reading those clunky letters along the bottom:  _ Duncan and Daddy, _ scrawled lopsided beside the stick-figure image of the two of them, holding hands, beneath a waxy yellow sun. At least, that’s what he assumes it said. Duncan only just started learning letters. He was missing a couple. Didn’t matter. He traced his finger over the sheen left by the crayon and thought about those tiny, little hands that played on the page before it reached him. 

And he’d gone and fricken  _ dropped _ it somewhere. His precious piece of paper was probably toilet tissue for some drifter by now. Or off decorating some filthy alleyway.

The door creaks open, and out steps the boss. He gives her a critical once-over, and finds himself wrinkling his nose. She’s not bad to look at by any means; a splash of water did well enough to clear the hollows of hangover lurking beneath her brown eyes. But the crappy armor she’s strapped over her shoulders is an eyesore. It barely holds itself together. When her shoulders flex, he can see the fibers strain. Not sure what good  _ that _ will do. He doesn’t care for the shotgun she’s shouldering, either, but at least that pistol at her waist looks mean enough. Not his style, but it spares him an ounce of relief to see that short-range wasn’t her  _ only _ option.

For his part, Mac’s left the sniper behind in favor of a hunting rifle. His fingers rap against the barrel. He snuffs out the butt of his cigarette with the heel of his boot. “You ready to get this show on the road?”

“That depends,” she fixes him with a curious stare. “You good?”

Mac matches with a measured gaze. “Just peachy. I’ll be even better once we get those caps in our hands.”

Whether she buys his deflection or not doesn’t matter. It brushes off further questions, and they saunter down the stairs in silence. Good enough for him.

__________________________

A dismal downpour wets the streets of Goodneighbor when they leave the Hotel Rexford behind. MacCready tugs his hat tighter to his head. The tell-tale chill seeps over his toes a few paces later. He groans inwardly.

Wet socks. Great. What a way to start.

Brown puddles collect on the fringes of the pavement. At least the cloud cover has a silver lining: it's driven the drifters to pool on the outskirts, too. MacCready watches a group of ghouls take shelter beneath the awning over Daisy’s. More bodies shuffle towards sanctuary in the Third Rail. Thunder rolls overhead. Like a cattle prod, it drives the crowds faster indoors.

Fewer eyes on the alleys means fewer eyes on them. More rumbles from the clouds will make for fewer heads turning at the clap of gunshots from the neighboring warehouse. All the more reason to get this over with quickly, while they have the cover of the storm.

His new boss takes the lead to the dented utility door that lets out beside a pair of rusted dumpsters. MacCready’s eyes flicker to the windows punctuating the tall walls on either side. His gaze narrows in on the flutter of curtains two stories above. He waits, fingers twitching on his rifle, until the sway of fabric steadies. 

A soft click captures his attention. The boss has freed the door from its lock. She catches it mid-moan, easing it open quietly beneath the whistle of the wind.

“Cute trick,” MacCready murmurs. “You’ll have to teach me that one.”

“Time to show me yours.” She gestures to the dark interior.

He sniffs stiffly. “Thought it was supposed to be ladies first.”

“ _ Lackeys _ first. You scared of the dark, MacCready?”

“All right, all right, don’t get your panties in a twist.” 

Time to earn his keep. She paid for his gun, after all. If in front is where she wants him, that’s where he’ll be. Even if her pistol clutched somewhere behind him leaves him feeling...itchy. 

A faint smile twitches at the corner of his lips. If it all goes south, at least they’ll have the good times to look back on. Nothing could wipe away the satisfaction of seeing Winlock and Barnes tuck tail and run like the mangy cowards they are. All bark and no bite. 

But what about Natasha? She has a snappy manner of speech herself. Flashed enough caps and booze in his face to tug him along. Seemed too good to be true, and so far, at least half of it is. But if the other half ends with caps in his hands and a place in Hancock’s good graces, then who really  _ cares  _ about the rest?

MacCready wrinkles his nose past the moldy stench that greets them. It tastes tacky and thick when he breathes in. Even with a roof to block the rain, dampness hangs heavy air. 

Natasha slinks alongside him in the shadows. Nothing much to see here: an old basement made from brick so weathered it’s forgotten the color it used to be, lines of wilted metal shelving, and a gritty gravel-dust floor underfoot. He winces at the crackle beneath their careful steps. No targets in sight, but there’s a shadow leaking down the stone steps. They creep towards cover on MacCready’s signal. 

The lurker putzes out of sight. MacCready follows the silhouette along the stairs. Something glints in the corner of his vision: an abandoned bottle. He takes it and tosses it lightly against the stonework. It clinks, cracking on impact, and rolls into the dust.

_ “ _ Huh?”

MacCready waits until the watchmen’s foot edges into view. He fires on the next exhale. Blood splatters red and wet over the gravel. A clean headshot. The man’s mouth fumbles for half a heartbeat. MacCready catches him as he falls, cradling the body to ground to muffle the noise.

Natasha lingers shifty at his shoulder, eyes fluttering from the body to the stairs. He’d been quiet as he could be, all things considered, but even so, there’s footsteps pattering over the floors above. He feels a pinch of annoyance at her hesitance. They still have a few seconds of scramble to get the drop on them, but not if they stand here letting it slip away.

“Let’s move,” he brushes past Natasha up the stairs, clinging close to the wall.

He peers up the second flight from around the corner. Warm. breath fans over his neck. Natasha presses next to him. “What’s the play?” she asks.

He spares her a sideways glance, but it’s enough to catch her fingers fidgeting on her pistol. First, she wanted him in front. Now, she wants him calling the shots, too. Harsh voices shout to each other from up above. He doesn’t waste time pondering further.

“When I move you move,” he grunts. “Go for cover, up the stairs. There’s a couch on its side. This should be fun.” 

MacCready pushes from the wall, rifle angled towards the second landing. He ducks from the path of pistol fire that cleaves over his head. Natasha’s fast on his heels. Mac clips the gunman’s shoulder on his next round. The bullet that follows leaves the man in a heap. 

Another gun turns in Mac’s direction. MacCready feels a brief, dizzy flip in his gut. His rifle’s empty; time to reload. Cover still lies a few feet away, up half a flight of stairs. Natasha’s already reached it. She’s propped up on the tattered cushions of the wrecked sofa, revolver poised and steady. Their foe hasn’t seen her. She has a perfect shot. Mac makes a break for it, barreling up the stairs. 

BANG.

MacCready’s leg buckles. He collides face-first with the floorboards, breaking the impact with his elbow. White starbursts throb through his vision. He blinks rapidly to clear it, gasping past the searing, angry pulse in his knee. He drags himself the rest of the way with a hiss leaking from between his teeth.

She... _ missed. _

“Here.” Something glints in Natasha’s grasp, and then she jabs it above his knee. MacCready recoils, then feels his body ease a second later. The stimpack works its magic on his leg, which, upon further inspection, appears only grazed by the round that shouldn’t have been fired in the first place. His eyes narrow towards Nat.  _ What the hell happened? _

“I’m fine,” MacCready grunts. “Let’s send them to hell.” 

For the first time, Mac gets a good look at their surroundings. They’re at the far corner of a wide room. Rubble clogs the west side, while a half-wall borders on the east. Dread pulls his stomach to his feet: the ceiling’s eaten away, revealing another floor up above. So much for their cover. Unless...

“Boss,” he pants, “we gotta get up there. Pick ‘em off easy from up top.”

Natasha’s eyes dart to where he points. She frowns. “There’s too many of them, we’ll be dead before we get there!”

“We’ll thin them out, then I’ll cover you,” MacCready shouts back. She’ll just have to deal with whatever or whoever she finds on the third floor. He’s already seen how sparse  _ her _ cover fire could be. His knee still throbs, though the ache is dulled by the stimpack and the flow of adrenaline. 

MacCready pops above their shelter to pick off the bruiser creeping up on their left. He falls easy. There’s a gap in the onslaught as the others pause to reload. Mac seizes his chance, firing down the line of ghouls cowering by the counter at the other end of the room. 

A shrill  _ ping _ snags his attention. MacCready glares at the fumbling woman beside him. Her flimsy leather armor is shredded beyond repair. Desperately, she shoves ammo into her emptied pistol. The chime of metal hitting concrete signals her second round of failure. Mac rolls his eyes, snatching the gun from her. He loads it rapidly and shoves in back into her shaking hands.

“Try to hit something!” He snaps.

She says nothing, but he catches her shoulders tensing from the corner of his eye. There’s six rounds in that revolver. MacCready hears them fire in between his own like an offbeat drum. Every single one goes wide. The last rockets past a wounded target laying propped against the far wall. It hits a clean foot above the mark. MacCready feels his jaw drop open just as far.

Panic splits his focus. Sure, she’d hired him to watch her back, but he’d been planning on a tag-team takeout, not a protection job. If she can’t hit a sitting target, she’s dead weight. But if she’s dead, he’s not likely to get paid. MacCready grits his teeth. 

Bullets whiz past his face, whittling through a nearby bookshelf. Splinters clatter down his back. MacCready groans. He’d rather have the rain outside soak him straight through then have to suffer  _ this _ storm of nonsense.

Something rumbles overhead. It isn’t thunder. 

Like an angry, dark cloud, the minigun revs to life in the hands of a ghoul perched on the crumbled ledge above them.  _ Shit, shit, shit -- _

“Shoot,” he hisses. “Boss, time to move!”

Natasha’s not listening. She’s got the man with the minigun fixed in her sights. She holds her position, but doesn’t fire. MacCready bites back a swear and grabs her shoulder the second after she pulls the trigger. The bullet grazes the gunman’s leg. He stumbles, swearing. There’s a break in the spray. 

MacCready drags Natasha with him through the jagged hole in the wall and down to the ground on the other side.

He feels Natasha’s heartbeat boxing against her chest and his. They’re pressed uncomfortably close, sandwiched between the wall, the rubble, and each other. For a second, he catches the fogged over fade in her brown eyes. He tears his gaze away, concentrating past the heat of her breath curling against his cheek to the staccato rhythm of gunfire.

Mac hears a fist bang against the side of the minigun as it sputters to a halt. “Stupid thing!”

He parts from the cover, catches his breath in his chest to steady his aim, and pulls the trigger. The minigun crashes to the floor below, sending a tremor quaking through the bones of the old building. The last vagabond falls from the third story to crunch beside the fresh crater in the concrete.

MacCready lets go of the air in his chest. The rush of his exhale fills the quiet of the warehouse. Natasha’s still panting next to him. He scrambles away from her hastily. Pushing past his twinge of disdain, he offers her a hand to help her up. She takes it, still shaking. As she moves to let go, MacCready holds fast to her forearm.

“What the _ hell  _ was that?”

Nat shirks out of his grasp. “That was close,” she mutters dismissively.

“Close? Yeah, I’d say that was pretty  _ fuh-- _ uh, really close!” MacCready’s hands clench at his sides. “We’d be dead if it wasn’t for me!”

“Well, I didn’t hire you to stand around and look pretty.”

“You could’ve mentioned you’re entirely incompetent with a gun!”

Natasha purses her lips. “I wouldn’t say  _ entirely _ \--”

“Entirely, completely,  _ humongously _ incompetent!”

She crosses arms over her chest. “I hit the guy, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but that’s not--”

“And I didn’t hit you?”

“That’s just basic--”

“So we agree that I have the basics down.”

MacCready grits his teeth, biting back the dozens of profanities he’d love to spew at this woman. “If that’s the standard, then, sure. But it’s pretty freaking low. You’re gonna have to start pulling your weight, or I’m gonna charge you extra. Can’t believe I let you talk me into a discount!”

“Chin up, buttercup,” she mutters sardonically. “You’ll get your caps when we’ve finished the job for Hancock.”

Mac takes off his hat to run fingers through his hair. They barely managed to carve their way through  _ this _ location. Two more warehouses? With this lady? Maybe if he’s gunning for an early grave.

But what else would he do besides loiter at the Third Rail? No one wants to touch him once they realize he used to run with the Gunners. Hancock was generous enough to let him hang shingle in Goodneighbor, but a little more goodwill with the Mayor could go a long way. All he has to do is survive the next few hours, and he’ll have a pocket full of caps and a good rep with the higher ups in town.

Assuming his partner doesn’t try to double-cross him. What would she do, anyway?  _ Shoot _ him?

Mac snorts a laugh to himself. Natasha shoots him a cold glare from her squatting position a few feet away. She rifles through bodies, pocketing caps, ammo, and other odds and ends. He sets about helping her.

“We’re splitting all that, right?”

“Right,” she mumbles.

“Look,” he says, “not everyone can be the best shot in the Commonwealth. The smart ones hire me to tag along. So, at least you got that going for you.”

She doesn’t take his olive branch, opting for sullen silence instead. MacCready feels the annoyance flowing off her like radiation.

“Anyway,” he carries on cheerfully, “maybe you just haven’t found the right gun yet.” He wrenches a bloodied pipe rifle from beneath a corpse, turning it over thoughtfully. It’s an automatic chambered for thirty-eights. There’s no tact in automatic weapons, but seeing as  _ aim _ is hardly Natasha’s strong suit, it might work better for her than that fancy revolver she’s packing.

“Here.” He clicks the safety back on and hands it over to her. She takes it tentatively. “Shouldn’t have to reload so much with this. Wouldn’t kill you to practice that, though.  _ Might _ kill you not to.”

She holsters the weapon at her hip. “I think we’ve cleaned them out of anything useful. Time for round two.

__________________________

“Shi--  _ shoot, shoot, shoot _ !”

“I am shooting!” Natasha screams back at him. Her finger tugs on the trigger, letting the bullets soar. They spew out in a stream, tearing through the ghoul that rounds the corner on them. She hits her target once, twice, three times...ten.

“He’s dead, alright? Quit wasting our ammo!”

The rhythm of the automatic halts abruptly as she frantically reloads. On cue, fresh rounds pepper the wall over their hiding place behind the counter. A faint clicking sound interrupts the gunfire. MacCready’s eyes latch on the metal canister rolling lazily across the splintered floorboards. He feels his blood run cold.

“Oh,  _ come on!  _ Boss--”

The grenade bursts. Shrapnel rips through the air in a rain of metal. He feels his stomach flee to his throat as the floor falters beneath him. MacCready clambers to the far corner in the nick of time. The ground gives way where he stood a moment before.

Pain jolts through his ribs. He grimaces. Briefly, his eyes flicker down to see chunks of wood and metal piercing through his duster. The tattered fringe of the coat catches on the jagged edge of the shattered floorboards. Through the clouds of debris milling near the doorway, he spies a rifle cutting through the haze of dust. Thundering footsteps signal more incoming, but the sound is a far-away echo drowned out by the residual ringing in his ears.

He squints past the sharpness at his side, focusing instead at the prickle shooting through his hands. His  _ empty _ hands. Frantically, he rakes his gaze over the rubble. 

Beside him, a hole in the brick makes a window to the world outside their corner of hell. The setting sun bathes all of Goodneighbor in violent light that matches the shade painting Natasha’s palms when she pats at the gash in her forehead. She pulls her hand away to stare at the color, blank-faced and slack jawed. His rifle rests beside her crumpled shape.

He claws the rifle back into his grip before scanning the room desperately. Two paths lay before them: the hole in the floor, or the hole in the wall. MacCready casts his eyes to the alley outside. It’s a two-story drop to the pavement. If they’re lucky, they’ll land in the open dumpster. If not, they’ll be too dead to worry about it anymore. Gunfire from the first floor cracks against the broken planks by their feet. Their choice is made for them.

MacCready seizes Natasha and rolls off the edge.

The dumpster catches them with a resounding  _ clang _ . Something crunches loudly near his ear, like the snap of a branch, only  _ wet _ . MacCready muffles a scream into his sleeve, blinking through the blur to his vision. Pain stings as his side, needle-like and throbbing. The impact drove the shrapnel in deeper. Every breath rattles painfully against his ribs.

Natasha hauls herself up beside him. Now he knows where that sound came from.

“Oh...oh god. Boss, try not to--”

A flurry of gunfire thumps against the dumpster’s rim.

“Move!” Natasha growls, pulling herself up and over. He flinches at the feel of the air rushing past the tip of his nose, carrying a brave bullet with it. He scurries after her.

They crouch close to the asphalt, hugging tight to the brick and the dumpster. The patter overhead continues. 

“Next time they reload, we make a break for it,” MacCready growls. “You think you can run on your own? I can--”

“The hell are you talking about? We’ve got a job to finish! We could come through the front again, catch them from behind--”

“Are you crazy? How do you expect to take out half a gang if you can’t even walk?” 

“I can walk fine! I’ve got stimpacks if you need them.”

“Stimpacks can’t fix everything!” MacCready spits the words as his teeth snap together. “Look.  _ Down. _ ”

Natasha’s eyes drop down her body to the rod of rebar skewering her thigh. Her hand moves, trembling, behind her to find the opposite end of the pole protruding from the other side. MacCready watches as the knit in her brow unfolds to pure, pale-faced shock. Her bottom lip twitches. She wobbles on her feet.

MacCready grips her shoulders just in time for her vomit to paint the front of his duster. MacCready gags back his own nausea, wincing at the sound of her sickness slopping off his coat and into the puddles. 

“Oh...kay,” he fights to find his breath again, resisting the urge to let it shallow. “Okay. This is fine. Everything’s fine.” He lowers her slowly to the ground. She lurches in his arms. He jerks back. Round two narrowly misses his shoes.

Shadows slope down the face of the wall to their meager shelter. “Down there, in the alley!”

“Yeah,” MacCready murmurs shakily. “You, uh, just keep taking care of that. I’ll shoot bad guys.”

Mac’s brow furrows. His rifle is missing again. He snatches hers, taking out the asshole pointing the barrel of his pistol their way. Too soon, the mag is empty. He nudges Nat’s shoulder frantically.

“Need more ammo! I’m out.”

She leans back against the faded brick in a bloody, sweaty mess. “I’m out, too.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“I’m out of thirty-eights.”

“You’ve gotta  _ fuh--  _ fricken kidding me! Where’s your pistol?”

“Empty,” Nat sighs.

MacCready doesn’t bother burying the groan of unadulterated frustration that peels from his lips. A glint catches his eye: his rifle lies in a smear of mud in the open alleyway.

More shots sound off above them, dotting the ground nearby. He trains his ears to the pattern, waiting for the inevitable breath where they stop to reload.

Steeling himself for the run, he spares Natasha one last glare. “You might be the worst person I’ve ever met.”

He bolts.

“There he is, light him up!”

MacCready snags the rifle, whips around, and fires in a fluid stroke.

Three headshots in a line. The thugs teeter on their perch. One collapses back into the shadow of the interior, while the others plunge from the ledge. The dumpster swallows them greedily. 

Mac’s eyes don’t leave the break in the brick. He trusts the memory flexing in his fingers as his hands move, automatically, to reload. A rile pokes around the corner of the ruined wall. Mac fires, and watches the gun drop beside the limp hands that move no more. He kneels to the earth, waiting.

Breathing.

Watching.

_ Ready. _

“MacCready,” Natasha’s hoarse call intrudes on his focus.

“ _ What? _ ” He snaps.

“It’s been an hour. I don’t think anyone else is coming.”

Reluctantly, he releases his stance. The last strokes of sunset bleed into inky darkness in the sky. He shivers, suddenly aware of the sheen of sweat on his skin. He grants their surroundings one last cursory glance for lurking hostiles, but finds none.

Weariness settles into his bones. Soreness aches in little pinpricks through his muscles, radiating from the bits of glass and debris still buried in his side. He wrinkles his nose as the stench of sickness drifts up to it. Beneath it all, the oozing, sticky wetness still lurks in his socks. The sky above is black and empty, but it may as well be pouring. Rain doesn’t sound half bad at the moment. 

His eyes narrow as they come to rest on the source of it all, now propped up on her good leg with the help of the dumpster. The pole through her thigh gives off a dull sheen beneath the muted glow of the streetlights. With a grimace, he strides to her side and offers his shoulder for support. She puffs out a gasp when they begin to shuffle forward. 

“You sure you can move with that?”

“Don’t have much of a choice. We can’t stay here forever.”

At least they can agree on one thing. 

__________________________   


“This place have a back door?” Nat pants as they lumber toward the fiery red neon sign above the Hotel Rexford. 

“What does it matter?” 

She shoots him a sideways glance. “Hancock said no witnesses.”

He barks a cold laugh. “Should’ve thought of that before the fight spilled out into the street.”

“I have a pole sticking out of my body. You don’t think that will raise eyebrows?”

“This is Goodneighbor. Everyone’s seen stranger crap.” MacCready feels his face twist. Anger simmers in the clench of his jaw. If she’d had half the caution she was grasping at now, they wouldn’t even  _ be _ in this position in the first place.

The position of her shooting a guilty glance his way as they hesitate at the base of the stairs inside. The position of Mac grounding out his umpteenth heavy sigh of the day through gritted teeth as he carries her up the flight of steps and sets her back down at the top. The position of fucking up a job for Hancock and smearing what sprouting hopes he had for a reputation in Goodneighbor right into the mud.

This was supposed to be a fresh start. A clean break from the Gunners. A chance to focus on the only thing that really mattered. Now, it was just another mess to run away from. If Hancock doesn’t throw him out, the survivors from their failed raid would. And if not them, then Whitechapel Charlie for the grievance of an unpaid bar tab. Natasha sure as hell wasn’t paying it any time soon.

Why the hell would someone like her take a job like this in the first place? It doesn’t make a lick of sense, but it doesn’t matter. He’s miles past caring about her source of desperation. Not when she’s turned the dial up a thousand notches on his.

“Right,” she turns to him, bracing herself against the wall for support. “We’ll clean up a bit, yank this thing out of me, and head back out in an hour or so once the stims have kicked in.”

For all her talk of raising eyebrows, she doesn’t bat an eye as Mac’s jump to his hairline.

“You and I need to have a talk, Boss,” MacCready hisses. “We got our asses -- uh -- we really got walked on today. More like  _ you _ got walked on today. I thought you hired me to be a second gun, not your  _ only _ gun!”

Even with sweat dripping from her face, and blood leaking from the metal wedged through her side, that snarky hint of a smile still curves on her lips. It sparks up his anger all over again.

“You don’t know how deep of shh -- crap you would’ve been in without me there! And forget splitting the spoils! This job has officially  _ cost _ me caps.”

“What are you saying?”

MacCready mouth curls into a sneer. “I’m saying I’m  _ done _ with you. You clearly got a death wish or something, and I’ve got too much to live for to be a part of that.”

Finally, a reaction. Something cracks in her cool exterior. Panic swims through her brown eyes. “Mac, let’s just talk about this.”

MacCready scoffs. “You and I don’t have a thing to talk about.”

Exasperation takes over as she licks her lips, ready to dive in again. But before she has a chance to, a third voice enters the fray.

“Mrs. Russell?”

MacCready’s attention peels to the ghoul shuffling from the corner. Hunched over and haggard, it’s clear the man’s seen better days. Mac’s seen him lurking around the Hotel Rexford a time or two. Always in that yellow fedora and overcoat with the red tie. Seems like something out of time, but then again, isn’t every ghoul ancient?

As far as he’s seen, the ghoul never leaves the hotel. Now, he takes shambling steps towards them down the hall, black eyes blown wide like he’s seen a ghost. He follows the ghoul’s gaze to Natasha, who gapes back at him. MacCready’s brows knit with confusion.

“No, no,” the ghoul speaks in a gravelly undertone, “that’s not right. You’re Mrs. Sokolova. You kept your maiden name. You told me I needed to get that right if I wanted to sell you something.”

“It’s  _ you _ .” The words tumble out of Nat in a soft whisper.

MacCready shifts nervously as the ghoul draws closer. “You know this guy?”

“Yeah, I do. I can’t believe it, but I do.” Her voice sounds about as faint as she looks. Her skin’s gone white as a sheet.

Mac laughs uncomfortably. “What’s so hard to believe? There’s tons of ghouls in Goodneighbor.”

“But only one smoothskin from before the war,” The ghoul growls. “And I’m looking right at her.”

Oh great. He’s one of the crazy ones. 

“C’mon, Boss.” Mac nudges Natasha’s shoulder. “Just another junkie hyped up on chems.”

“No, he’s not.” 

MacCready huffs a heated sigh. “You can start making sense  _ any time _ now.”

But Nat’s not looking at him anymore. She’s ignoring him entirely now, instead of just mostly like before. She stays rooted in place, staring back at the ghoul with a twist on her face that looks an awful lot like the expression she had right before she upchucked down the front of his duster. MacCready takes a step back from them. 

“You were with Vault-Tec,” she says.

“I  _ am _ Vault-Tec! Twenty years of loyal service, and now look at me. I wasn’t on the list!”

MacCready grips his rifle tighter. The ghoul raises his voice, gesturing wildly.

“But you...look at  _ you _ . Two hundred years, and you’re still perfect! How? How’s that possible?”

“Boss, now might be a good time to  _ walk away _ .”

She doesn’t hear him, doesn’t even seem to know he’s there at all. There’s a fog in her eyes as she seems to stare straight through the ghoul at something no one else can see. Whatever it is, it’s eating her like acid. Mac glances down and sees the shiver in her palms. His eyes trail back to the ghoul, and his hands stay clenched on his gun.

“They put us on ice.” The words lay heavy as bricks. She doesn’t speak so much as she drops them at their feet. “I was only thawed out six months ago.”

A chill moves through his veins while he watches them. Suddenly, he feels as if  _ he’s _ been put on ice. His eyes flash between the two of them, waiting for the punchline that doesn’t come. No, there’s no way. It  _ can’t _ be.

But she’s a god  _ awful _ shot. Any other wastelander knows better than her before they turn six. At his best guess, this woman’s in her early twenties like him. You don’t live that long without skills or friends. And she’s sure skilled at tricking people into being her friend.

The stories about vaults aren’t kind. Experiments, torture, manipulation, and everthing in between. Those psychopaths picked apart every bit of their subjects. Wasn’t right, putting themselves above everyone else, deciding who lived or died, and playing puppeteer with the survivors. Cryostasis sounds like a nice vacation compared to the vaults he’s heard of before, but he wouldn’t put anything past Vault-Tec.

Shock gives away the ghoul’s ignorance. “What? Vault-Tec never told me that! I...I didn’t know.”

“Neither did  _ we _ .” This time, there's steel to her tone.

MacCready fumbles for something to say. “Boss...I had no clue. I feel like such an  _ ass-- _ I mean, idiot.”

The ghoul leers forward. “Well, I had to get to the future the hard way! Living through the filth...and the decay...and the bloodshed! Look at me! I’m a  _ freak _ !” 

Mac steps in front of Natasha, rifle leveled at the ghoul’s chest. “Don’t be stupid, pal. Everybody knows Vault-Tec are monsters. It’s not her fault you weren’t on their precious list!”

Nat rests a hand on his shoulder with a gentleness that, for a moment, shakes the focus of his anger from the ghoul. Then, the softness of her touch falls away. There’s no more frailty when she speaks, only venom.

“If it’s any consolation, your odds were better out here. I’m the only one who survived Vault 111.”

The ghoul recoils as if slapped. “B-But...your husband, and your boy. I remember, he was only a baby--”

“ _ I’m _ the only one who survived Vault 111.” 

MacCready feels his throat grow dry. She had a kid? A family? Something wrenches in his chest, like a pulled muscle. He doesn’t have to close his eyes to remember Duncan’s little giggle, his precious, blue-eyed face, Lucy’s smile as she watches them playing in the grass. She’s snatched his hat again, and now she’s tugging it down over her eyes to shield them from the sun…

For a moment, he can see her so clearly. Soft brown hair, the slight upturned nose that she hated but he loved. The same one he always made sure to pepper with kisses. The feeling of her smooth hands in his calloused ones…

...and the heat of the blood spraying from her body as the ferals shredded her to pieces.

A door slams. MacCready jolts as he blinks back to reality. He sucks in a shallow breath, pulls the hat from his head, and knuckles fingers through his hair.

The Vault-Tec ghoul’s a weeping heap on the floor. Natasha left him there. Left them  _ both  _ out in the hall. He hesitates. It could be that she needs some space to herself. It’s not easy to swallow the unbidden reminders of the holes in your life. When he tries it now, the lump in his throat won’t budge. Mac’s eyes slide from the door to the ghoul, who blubbers on with his head in his hands. MacCready sighs, and shifts towards the door.

He walks in slowly, as if the floorboards are hiding frag mines. Natasha doesn’t lift her head when he enters. She’s seated on the side of the bed, peeling out the scraps that remain of her armor. 

“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” she mumbles.

“Why didn’t you say you were from a vault?”

She sniffs an empty laugh. “In my experience, ‘My name is Natasha Sokolova, I’m with the KGB, prepare to die’ is a much more effective wasteland greeting than ‘Hey, I’m a vaultie and everyone I ever knew is dead.  _ Pretty please _ don’t take advantage of me!’” 

The honesty is jarring, like a cold splash of water. MacCready blinks, not sure what to make of it.

“Well,” she adds, glancing at the door, “ _ almost _ everyone I knew. But trust me, I’ve tried the whole bleeding heart sob story bit. Didn’t end well.”

“And this did?” MacCready eyes the pole protruding from her side.

A brief, lifeless smile flashes on her face. “I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah, you’re about to if you go yanking that thing out like that!”

He pries her hands away from the rebar, feeling his own stomach roll at the sight of the seeping wound. “Just...let me. Stimpacks don’t fix everything.”

Surprise colors her face, but silently, she obliges. Her hands fall back to brace against the bedsheets while he rummages through their supplies for bandages, liquor, a cloth that’s clean  _ enough _ . Done right, the stim will keep her from losing more blood than she can afford to. Step one is cleaning and clearing the area. 

“You still got that fancy knife?”

Natasha nods, producing the folded blade from her pocket. She’d toyed with it all night in the Third Rail. Faded red hatch marks still linger on her knuckles. He was sure she’d stolen it, just like the leather jacket hanging too-big off her shoulders. It’s military caliber, kept in pristine condition. Either barely used, or often tended to. For the first time, he catches sight of the gold lettering etched on the sheath: N. J. R.

What was that name the ghoul called her? Russell? But ‘N’ doesn’t stand for Natasha. She kept her maiden name, he said. MacCready swallows past the sudden thickness in his throat. He drags the chair from the corner of the room and props her leg up on his knee. She bites out a hiss. 

“Hope you got other jeans,” he grumbles as he sets about cutting the material away from the puncture. When the wound is finally freed to the air, he’s thankful that she’s averted her gaze. The metal rod tunnels through her skin, leaving a crater torn in its wake. Blood and bruises spider web across her leg. MacCready nods to the vodka on the bedside table. “Might want to take a glug of that.”

He watches her chase the slow swallow of nerves down her throat with the liquor. When she sets the bottle back down, he wets the cloth with it and begins to dab, as gently as he’s able, around the area of the injury. She jerks beneath the sting, recoiling from his reach. He holds her in place with a firm grip on her other leg.

“You want this to get better or not? Stay still.” She nods, but the color’s fled her cheeks again. Mac feels a pull at his own nerves. She’s far, far too twitchy for the easy part. 

“Would’ve been nice to know about the vault thing. Explains why you’re so oblivious.”

“Oblivious?” 

“Yeah, running into trouble, now knowing what the hell you’re doing.”

“I made it this far, haven’t I?”

“Six months, huh? How much fast talking did you do to get here?” 

“Enough to keep me alive.”

“Really? Cause you don’t act like that’s your goal half the time. Hell, you throw yourself at everything like you’re jumping off a cliff.” 

MacCready splashes alcohol over his own hands, wincing at the sting of a half-dozen cuts across his palms. Natasha’s shoulders haven’t eased the slightest, but there’s that far-away fog on her face again. Good enough.

“You point, I shoot. That was the arrangement. But getting us killed wasn’t part of that plan. All I’m saying is, if you  _ are _ jumping off a cliff, I’m not jumping with you.”

“MacCready, I don’t want to -- MOTHERFUCKER!”

The rod gives a dull  _ clang _ as he chucks it somewhere behind him. He seizes the stimpack from the table, applying pressure with the cloth in the other hand. With the sharp sting of the needle and another wave of profanities, Nat’s shouts gradually subside. Sweating and panting, she watches, incredulous, as he unfurls the bandage from his pack and starts wrapping the wound. 

“You were...distracting me.”

Mac shrugs. “Last time you looked at this, it didn’t go so well for me and my jacket.”

“I’m sorry about that. About...all of this, really.”

Mac studies the sincerity furrowed in the lines on her forehead. Sorry doesn’t clean up the mess they’d made in Goodneighbor. Sorry doesn’t put caps in his hands. Sorry doesn’t get the Gunners off his back, or make the blue little boils dotting Duncan’s skin disappear. Sorry can’t make up for what you’ve already lost.

Maybe she knows a thing or two about that. He hands her back the knife that holds those shiny initials. 

“Yeah, well...the hard part’s over, and you did pretty well,” he mumbles, tying off the end of the bandage. “Here,” he offers her a smoke from his pack as he lights one for himself.

She takes it tentatively, twirling it in her fingers. Her eyes still haven’t left his face. He shifts in his seat beneath her relentless scrutiny. “What, do I have something on my nose?”

“You’re a father.”

MacCready chokes out a shaky breath. Suddenly, he feels her gaze like a scope zeroed in on his chest. His heart beat leaps into a sprint as he flounders in the crosshairs of the accusation. “What the hell would you know about it?” 

As soon as the words are out, a pit burns through his stomach like embers at the end of his cigarette. The edge of her gaze hardens, lips pursed in a line. MacCready feels his flare of anger soften and dissipate. He puffs out a smoky exhale, and tries again.

“I...how did you…?”

“You know how to take care of someone else. You told me I did a good job and offered me a treat when it was done.” She gestures with her cigarette. “You were done with me until you realized I have a kid.”

“That doesn’t mean crap,” MacCready bristles. “Just because you missed out on Wasteland 101 doesn’t mean the rest of us run around clueless!”

That smug, knowing smile is pulling at the corners of her mouth again. It’s infuriating. But the further flustered he feels, the more certainty he sees on her face. Mac scowls back at her.

“All day, I’ve been trying to remember the first time I saw you,” she says gently.

Mac rolls his eyes, leaning back in the chair. “Still? We talked about this. You got trashed and talked a lot of talk. Wish I knew you couldn’t walk the walk to back it up.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “That’s not the first time.”

She reaches for her bag and fumbles through its contents. His heart still hasn’t stopped hammering in his chest.  _ Why? _ He takes another drag, watching the smoke twist and furl in the dim light. They’d had dozens of brushes with death and danger today. Yet, here, in this strange, suspended moment while he watches her hunt for whatever the hell is in the bag of hers, he feels open. Exposed. A sitting target. It sets his nerves on fire.

“What do you mean that wasn’t the first time?” He prods impatiently.

“The first time was at Daisy’s,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I remember your coat, now. Didn’t catch your face, really. You were on your way out, I was on my way in. And you dropped this.”

From her pack, she pulls out a sheet of wrinkled paper. She passes it to him. The edges are crisp. Water stains bloom across the drawing, but he recognizes it all the same. His breath flutters in his chest when he traces the familiar, waxy imprint of the crayon. 

“By the time I looked up, you were gone,” she explains. “I didn’t know who you were, or if I’d see you again.”

Slowly, tenderly, he folds the well-loved page into quarters. It finds its home again in the pocket over his heart, which still can’t calm to a quieter pace. When he tries to speak again, his throat is raw. Parched. Bare.

“Why did you  _ keep _ it?”

“It...made me think of what Shaun might be, someday.” 

Might be? Someday? Shit, her kid’s still  _ alive _ . The last cinders of his anger crumble to ash. 

“You’re wrong about me,” she continues. “I can’t die. Not yet. Not when I’m the only one he has out here, fighting for him.”

When he dares to glance her way again, it’s like looking into a mirror. Desperation haunts her voice and dwells in the dark circles beneath her eyes. It’s so dauntingly familiar that it chills him to the bone. He shifts to cover his shiver.

“Some people they...took him,” when she speaks, it sounds hollow. “I saw it happen, in the vault. But I couldn’t stop it. I don’t have what it takes to go after them, not yet. But I  _ have _ to. MacCready, I know you said you’d go, but--”

“Look,” he holds up his hands, “anybody who steals kids deserves a bullet in their head. But I’ve got my own axes to grind. You want me tagging along, it’s gotta be worth my while.”

Something flickers in her eyes. The smile finds its way back to her face, but this time, it’s softer at the edges. 

“I can make that happen. There’s a ghoul I ran into a while back, I think his name was Deegan. He said if I wanted work, to come find him in Bunker Hill.”

Mac feels a dull ache in his chest. The folded paper in his pocket would be the last piece of Duncan he’d have for a while. But with time, and enough caps in the right hands, reparations could be made to repair his reputation in Goodneighbor. Hopefully. Staying, for now, isn’t much of an option.

“You and I are gonna have a few shooting lessons before we go running anymore jobs,” he cautions her. “But when we do, I get half cut. And you _owe me_ for the caps I missed out on here.”

“Deal.”

MacCready ignores her outstretched hand, gesturing with his cigarette. “And if I say ‘no, Boss, that’s a dumb idea and we’re not doing it’ you’re gonna say ‘wow, Mac, you’re so smart and I’m gonna listen to your very wise advice and not do something that would get us both killed’.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. Mac raises a brow, and she relents. “Okay,  _ sure _ .”

“And if I say ‘nah, that guy’s not paying us enough--’”

“I’ll butter them up until they do.”

Mac sniffs skeptically. “I ain’t wasting time on charity work.”

“Have a little faith. I got  _ you _ to give me a discount, didn’t I?

“Yeah,” Mac grunts. “You’re a smooth talker, all right.”

“And you’re a slick shooter. Now are we gonna shake, or not?”

Their hands clasp, sticky with sweat and blood and booze. But it’s warm. And it’s the only thing he has to hold on to.

“I guess we’re a heck of a team.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I've been hoping to capture some of my gameplay experiences in this narrative. This one was meant to emulate "Megh rushed the main plot of Fallout 4 and hit a level threshold like a brick wall before the courser". Rest assured, I've no designs on writing Nat as a damsel, nor does she have a desire to be one. But, she didn't come into the wasteland with violence as a skill set, and she's not the greatest at listening to the people who try to help her. Ha. Girlfriend needs a training montage! I hope her journey into badassery will be an exciting/satisfying one :)
> 
> 2\. The "impaled on rebar due to falling from a high place" was inspired by the opening sequence of Tomb Raider (2013) in which Lara suffers a similar injury. I remember shaking my head at my TV and saying "girl, you need a weekend!" after witnessing that.
> 
> 3\. I try to do my research with guns and medical things and such, but I'd be lying if I pretended to be an expert on any of that.
> 
> 4\. Exposition is....expositiony. Thanks for bearing with me through those early set up bits!
> 
> This chapter came together much more quickly than anticipated. I'm still generally anticipating a bimonthly update schedule. 
> 
> Thank you to all of you readers and commenters and rebloggers! I love hearing from people what they enjoyed or what they have questions about. I'm on tumblr as @adventuresofmeghatron, and always love to ramble about fallout and ships and tropes and such if you feel like connecting there. :)


	3. Practice and Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready suggests an experiment in trust. Natasha resorts to tried and true methods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains allusions to a child finding/using a gun. Other than that, I think it's just game-typical violence.

The first time Natasha held a gun, it was far too big for her little hands. 

Mamochka lost her keys again, and now they were running _late_. For what, she doesn’t remember. She only remembers scrounging through every nook and cranny of the red-brick townhouse. Finding stubby crayons abandoned beneath the couch in the living room, and her favorite stuffed bear, Mr. Misha, sandwiched between her twin bed and the wall. But no keys.

She caught the sheen off the barrel from the sliver of the open drawer in her parents’ bedroom. Hastily, she yanked it open. What she saw drew her eyes as wide as saucers. 

The doorbell rang. Mamochka’s footsteps pattered quickly away towards the front door. Soft voices, followed. Filtering through the apartment came Mrs. Russell’s laughter, warm and earthy like Papa’s morning coffee.

She checked over her shoulder, just to be sure no one spied her find. Tentatively, she reached forward.

It felt cold when the metal kissed her palms. She curled small hands around the grip. Hands that dropped button-eyed Mr. Misha to the floor to pick up the pistol. Hands that hadn’t harmed another human.

Hands that knew exactly where to find the gun again when it wasn’t a kindly neighbor at the door.

__________________________

"Well, what the heck. You been holding out on me, hot shot?" 

Amber glass litters the rooftop, glimmering beneath the afternoon sun. Natasha wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, squinting at the remnants of her target. The other hand lowers the empty pistol.

MacCready watches with a lopsided smile and a cigarette hanging from his lips. His smirk doesn’t reach his eyes. His whole face is like a mismatched pair of socks. An expression she’s grown accustomed to, these past six months.

Nobody knows what to make of the frozen TV dinner, whose timer dinged two hundred years too late.

“I’ve done this before,” she murmurs. She pops the cylinder, thumbs the bullets in, and pushes it back into place.

She can feel MacCready’s eyes narrow before she sees them. _Sure you have,_ he says without saying it. 

“Could’ve fooled me.”

So, he _does_ say it. No beating around the bush with this one. Not like Nick. Or Preston. Or...Piper.

Natasha finds herself reflecting his expression. Mirroring that half-lift of lips that he’s wearing now. He’s refreshing, if a bit crisp.

MacCready shifts his stance, sauntering towards the collection of bottles they’d plucked on their way through alleys and crumbled avenues. One by one, the bits of salvage blasted pieces at the other end of her aim. Not perfect; some took a second or third try. But _easy,_ like they should be. 

MacCready flicks his wrist and sends another bottle soaring. Too slow, she jolts the pistol to the sky and fires. The bottle shatters, but it’s the concrete that claims the victory.

He clicks his tongue. The sound feels scalding.

“Look,” Nat sighs, “You’re not the first person who’s told me practice makes perfect.”

“I don’t know about perfect,” he snarks, crossing his arms. “I’d settle for _functional_.”

“Well, clearly, I practice just fine.” Nat gestures to the graveyard of glass at the other end of the rooftop. 

“Yeah,” his tone softens with contemplation. “How about that.”

She clicks the safety on and holsters the pistol. Brushing the gravel dust from her jeans, Nat begins packing up their little training camp. All the while, his scrutiny settles on her skin like a rash. She already knows where he’s going to itch next.

“Bottles aren’t the same as bodies, darlin’.”

“That’s not it.” She coughs a laugh. “I promise you my soft, gentle woman’s heart isn’t fucking with my aim.”

“Well I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

“I’ve killed a lot of people, MacCready. And it wouldn't have been so damn _messy_ if I did it with a gun.”

“Okay, killer,” he holds his hands up in defeat. “You drink blood for breakfast, I get it. But something’s throwing you off, and we’re not gonna find it up here popping off sitting targets. You need some action.”

She deflects the flutter of nerves that brings with a snicker. “Maybe when you’re done teaching me how to shoot, I can teach _you_ some better lines.”

“Ha-ha. I could teach you _plenty_ of other things. Like an ounce of professionalism, for one.” 

Even though he’s grousing, there’s the faintest flush of pink on his cheeks. What’s more, he must realize it. MacCready tugs down on the brim of his hat, scowling. Nat’s smirk spreads to a wide grin.

“Just looking out for you, partner.” She nudges his shoulder gently as they saunter back towards the fire escape. 

“Good to know you care.” There’s a smile on his face again, alongside the playful glint in his eye that’s come to be familiar. As familiar as something can be in the span of four days. 

Stiffness aches in her gait as they wind through the shadowy side streets. The route from Goodneighbor to Bunker Hill is, thankfully, a short one. Even with a few days’ rest in the Hotel Rexford, the bruise rubbing beneath her jeans sinks deep as the ocean. In each movement, she feels it throb alongside her pulse.

They’d ducked out in the wee hours of the morning, in the blue-gray precursor to sunrise. Despite their precautions, she felt the static cling of eyes following their exit. They’d failed to clean house for Hancock; like unsavory party guests, they’d trashed the place before sneaking out the back. The fallout from their misadventures hadn’t reached their temporary sanctuary in the Hotel Rexford. But staying longer meant the aftershocks would find them eventually.

“We’ll make things right here when we’ve got the caps to pay for it,” MacCready had said, more to himself than to her. She didn’t have to ponder that forlorn, faraway look on his face for long. She watched his fingers trace the paper square folded into his breast pocket, and had the answer to her unspoken question.

Their destination slides into sight between the gaps in the buildings. Although it boasts ramshackle walls and dutiful guards at its perimeter, Bunker Hill is more a modest trading post than a true settlement. Time has chewed away chunks of brick from the famous monolith at its heart. Nat’s spied the white spire from afar, but never up close. MacCready, on the other hand, seems familiar, and, if his well-worn scowl is any indicator, unimpressed. He tips his hat to the woman standing guard as they shed the shadows of the alley and step into the light.

“So,” he says as they step inside the walls, “who’s this guy who’s handing out work?”

“Ed Deegan, I think his name was. Bought me a drink. Nice guy.”

“What kind?”

“Whiskey sour.”

“No, what kind of _guy_ are we talkin’ about? And more importantly, what kind of work? Don’t think blasting apart some salvage qualifies us for another run like that one we botched for Hancock.”

“Okay, okay. He’s a ghoul. Had some combat armor get-up on. Said something about a family - the Cabots, I think. Anyway, they’re looking for extra security.”

“Never heard of ‘em, but anyone fancy enough to hire a merc to recruit _more_ mercs is dealing in something. Didn’t hire Gunners, so they must not want them taking a cut off the top. My bet’s on chems.”

“Could be,” Nat shrugs. “Does that offend your delicate morals?”

“Nah, I ain’t the preachy type. But if we think the job’s too dicey, we could just take a steal of the stash ourselves and make just as much selling it.”

Nat presses a hand to her lips to cork the laughter that bubbles in her chest. If only Nick could see her now. The look on his face might be worth the earful he’d sputter. 

Mac quirks a brow her way. “What? You not willing to play dirty, killer?”

“Ready and willing,” she assures him. “Now let’s go see what we can squeeze out of them.”

Past the gate that whines open on groaning hinges, smells of cookfire waft to greet them. Her eyes flutter shut and she sucks in the smoky, earthy scents that are half-familiar, but not _quite_. Wasteland barbecue. Still tangy, but with an off-key flavor inspired from _almost_ tomatoes. Tatoes. An easy one to remember, and an easy one to stomach. Easier than radroach stew, anyway. Her belly gurgles moodily. Nat’s eyes flicker open and lock on the dead gaze of a buck-toothed molerat roasting with its teeth bared mid-snarl. The grumble morphs into a lurch of nausea in her gut. She peels her gaze away, nose wrinkled.

“Could use some grub before we roll up our sleeves,” MacCready looks longingly after the sight she’s turned away from. “Too bad only one of us is packing caps.”

Nat’s eyes narrow. Her stomach moans its protest in time. The smirk pulls on the mercenary’s lips.

“ _Or_ , I could help you help yourself. Half the traders in the Commonwealth route through here. Same with the caravans coming up from Capital Wasteland. Lots of caps changing pockets. Might be that some just happen to fall into ours.”

For someone so fond of robbery as a Plan B, she ponders her luck that he hasn’t already robbed _her_. Then again, she’d already handed him most of her caps. Nothing much besides caps and crayon drawings seem to matter to MacCready. 

A sudden stroke of inspiration prickles on her brain. There is something _else_ in her bag flashy enough to grab some attention.

“All right, let’s play,” she murmurs, digging through her pack. “I’ll show them my goods while you swipe their’s.”

Rosy-cheeked, he sputters, “I mean, _that_ probably won’t be necessary.”

She yanks the pre-war treasure from her bag by the wrist-latch, dangling it for him to see. “I’m going to show them my _PipBoy_ , MacCready. Who doesn’t love Zeta Invaders?”

“That thing has _Zeta Invaders_?!”

His exclamation draws attention from the throng of drifters milling around them. Like moths to a flame, heads turn to ogle at the green light emanating from her wrist. MacCready’s eyes flash bright from the color on the screen.

“Well go on,” she nudges him. “You do your part, I’ll do mine.”

“Yeah, fine,” he mumbles. She shakes her head with a small chuckle. If caps were his stick, apparently she’d just found his carrot.

Half an hour later, Natasha finds MacCready with his back propped against the planks of the barricade, knees to his chest, already digging into their spoils. He offers her a skewer when she slides to a seat beside him. Tentatively, she takes it, turning it between her fingers. Molerat. Probably. At least this one isn’t _staring_ at her. Beneath the char, and slather of sauce, it could even be her regular teriyaki shish kebab order from the food cart outside of her old office. 

Could be. But one mouthful of gristle and it’s clear it _isn’t_.

Nat gulps it down with a grimace, even as the plaintive growl in her stomach eggs her on.

“What, food not fancy enough for you?” MacCready smacks his lips as he licks the sauce from his fingers.

“I feel bad for you,” Nat sighs, forlorn. “This isn’t real food. You’ll never know better.

“Not sure I’m the one who needs the pity. You look pretty miserable to me.”

Touché. She braves another bite, and she can feel the truth of his words etched in the twist on her face.

“You score big?” She changes the subject to something, _anything_ besides the tough, leathery taste on her tongue.

“Big enough to get us off the ground.” MacCready opens his pack enough to show her the half-dozen boxes of ammo inside. “Not much for caps, but this would’ve cost more than I could’ve swiped. Soon as we find this guy of yours, we’ll be ready to roll.”

“Good thing it’s a small world these days. Won’t have to look any further.” 

MacCready follows her eyeline to the ghoul in the army green chestplate making his way towards the bar. 

“You ready to get paid, partner?” She asks.

“I was ready yesterday. Or, you know, four days ago.” 

But when Nat straightens to a stand, he only frowns after her. 

“What’s the hold up?”

“Are you...gonna finish that?” 

Her eyes flicker to the object of his fixation: the last chunk of meat on her skewer. 

She’s learned a lot about MacCready in the last hour: he’s giddy as a kid when it comes to video games, his skills as a thief match his skills with a gun, and he has horrible, _horrible_ taste.

“Here,” she tilts the stick his way. He snatches it from her hands greedily.

__________________________

“God, do you _have_ to do that?”

Nat’s only answer is muted laughter that she buries in her sleeve. MacCready shifts his grip on his rifle. He flinches again at the fresh rustle in the parched grass. Nat presses the edge of her palm harder against her mouth, silent snickers rocking through her chest.

“It’s not funny, okay?” He mutters petulantly.

“Oh, it’s hilarious.” Nat gasps for breath, wicking tears away from the corners of her eyes. 

“Look, don’t make fun of this stuff. You never know!”

He’s _serious_. His eyes are blown wide and worried, catching on every little crackle in the brush. Oh, it’s too much. Nat saunters to a stop, bracing herself against a gnarled tree trunk, and snorts another stream of laughter.

Exasperation mingles with the fear rippling through his face. He comes to a halt nearby, but keeps his gaze trained to their surroundings. “Yeah, yeah, all right, get it out of your system now. Don’t need the raiders hearing us coming from a mile off.”

Of all the real foes that lurked in the wasteland, and all the tangible threats he’d vanquished, it’s the unknown eyes in the sky that have him sweating beside her. MacCready, the self-described best shot in the Commonwealth, someone who - as far as she could tell - might be well-deserving of that title, is terrified of _aliens_.

The sudden, unexpected revelation nearly compromised their negotiations with Jack Cabot. Already, it was hard enough to fix a straight face to the man in the clinically clean lab coat, speaking to her about ancient aliens like his life ambition was to run a special on the History Channel. Put that next to MacCready, twitching so fitfully on the sofa she swore he’d jump from his own skin in his haste to run away, and it was all Nat could do not to break character.

But her tenacity had won them _double_ the payment Ed Deegan promised. Assuming they could finish the job, that is. Progress has stalled to a stop as MacCready flashes her a withering look and Natasha doubles over again.

“Let’s just do the job, all right?” He says. “Get my mind off all this...freaky crap.”

Right. The job: the real reason they’d trekked all this way with the sun broiling against their backs. It’s a creamery this time instead of a warehouse, and one location instead of three. A recovery job for some wayward package that wound up in raider hands. Very precious to the Cabots, apparently, though Nat hadn’t pressed for details. She’d pushed their luck far enough to up their payment. Besides, if they’re interrupting some chem ring like MacCready suggested, then the fewer details they know, the better.

All they had to do was swipe the package and see it home safely. Should be easy enough. In theory. Natasha’s fingers thrum restlessly against her belt. 

Their footfalls slow at the crest of the slope overlooking their destination. Parsons Creamery is a rusted husk of corrugated metal, surrounded by a yard of browning grass littered with old world debris. Even with their careful steps, the grass still crunches. MacCready drops into a crouch, sizing up their target through the scope of his rifle.

“Okay,” Nat peers down the hill towards the creamery. “What’s the play?”

A sudden grin twists on his face. There’s a stroke of vengeance in the curl of his lips, something hungry, _giddy_ in the way he shrugs his shoulders. Oh, that can’t be good.

“You’re up, rookie.”

“I’m...what?”

“This one’s all you.” MacCready shifts among the bramble shielding them from sight.

Natasha swallows past the lump in her throat, summoning a thin smile. “Yeah, right, I gotta start pulling my weight and all that. I _get it_. But do you--”

“You said it yourself, you _practice_ perfect. I’ll give you this much: you’ve got good instincts. In theory, you’re a heck of a shot. But we need to know what the problem is if you want a chance at fixing it.”

So _this_ was the action he was talking about. There’s no snark in his eyes this time; he’s serious. She finds herself longing for that sun-baked rooftop with its lines of bottles in a row. Or maybe just a bottle that’s _full_. Something to burn away the nerves plucking like strings in her chest. 

“And throwing me to the wolves is supposed to fix things _how_ , exactly?”

“Should give me a chance to see what’s catching you. Something about your target practice isn’t reaching you when it’s the real thing.”

“So you’re just gonna, what, stay here and watch me get my ass kicked by the half-dozen raiders camped out in there?”

“Don’t worry, killer,” he drawls. “Vicious thing like you can handle it, right? Said you do things the messy way all the time. Besides, if things get real hot, I’ll have eyes on you. And _I_ don’t miss.”

Nat scoffs, but he’s already propping his rifle so it’s poised towards the creamery. She bites the inside of her cheek and fixes him with a sullen stare. He matches her with that cocky glint in his eye that only serves to send her nerves scuttling faster. “And you think you’re gonna _see_ something from way back here that just, what, magically makes me better at this? Shouldn’t you be _next_ to me if you want to check my aim?”

“Sniper’s sights, sweetheart,” he pats his rifle affectionately. “Ain’t nothin’ sharper. Besides, next to you is nothing but chaos. Learned that lesson the hard way.”

Ouch. But...fair. He hasn’t budged an inch, and now he’s lowered his belly to the ground to finesse the angle of his sights. Nat digs in, too, arms crossed. “How do I know you’re not just gonna lead me to the slaughter and take off into the sunset?”

The sigh leaves his lips with a press that’s tight, controlled. Straightening from the dirt, he steps her way until his shadow falls across her body. He’s taller than her, she realizes now. Not by much, but enough that she has to tilt her chin upward to keep her glare on his face. 

Enough that she catches those baby blues beneath the brim of his hat that typically shadows their brightness. They speak to a secret youth that doesn’t match the world-weary lines on his cheeks. And the sternness set in his jaw doesn’t reach them, either. It certainly doesn’t touch the gentle murmur that comes next. 

“Guess you’re just gonna have to trust me.”

Trust him. A man she barely knows. Who has no qualms about stealing or cheating to get ahead. A man who’s only motivation seems to be caps. Well, not his _only_ motivation.

She thinks of that precious paper folded in his pocket. Nat found it crumpled underfoot, among the dirt and debris that all blends into the beige monotone of the wasteland. It stuck out, too bright, like a flower among weeds. Another few footfalls, and it might’ve morphed into mottled brown, too. She’d plucked it from the ground, unfurled the fraying loose-leaf, and touched the waxy imprints with the breath held tight in her lungs. Tight as she wants to clench Shaun to her chest, to wrap him to her and never, never let go...

But for now, the air she’s caged whistles out from her pursed lips. She deflates, unfolding her arms. Trust him. Okay. She’s done dumber things. 

“Well?” He shoots a sharp look her way. “Heard that talk enough darlin’. Time to show me the walk.”

Reluctantly, she pulls the pistol from her hip. 

__________________________

Natasha slinks her way between the battered crates and overturned barrels outside of the old creamery. Brittle grass snaps underfoot. She winces, pauses, and tugs her breath taut. 

But when her eyes dart to the wide wooden doors, yawning open to the sight of a trashcan fire burning within, she doesn’t see fresh movement from the raiders lingering inside. Echoing from their nest, she hears their harsh, raspy voices bounce off the vaulted metal ceiling. The sound is murky and metallic, as if they’re speaking into half-empty beer cans. By the glimpse she’s getting, some of them might be. It’s loud enough to carry from the creamery across the hill. Loud enough to cover the sound of dry, crumpled grass. Natasha creeps closer.

Behind the cover of a stack of pallets, she settles in to observe her quarry. There’s two main entrances into the barn, both open to the stagnant heat sizzling in the air. A utility door on the other end, too. Maybe more that she can’t see. Doesn’t matter too much, really. Alone, shooting from one angle, they’d all swarm in her direction. She’d only have to take care that they didn’t come up behind her.

She casts a glance back over her shoulder, but she can’t pick out MacCready’s rifle among the branches anymore. There’s a gaping, open space between her hideout and the treeline. Enough room to get riddled with a dozen bullets should things go south. She swallows, but the back of her throat still feels like a desert.

Boots scraping on the gravel draw her attention back to the barn. Lumbering from the rusty glow of the interior comes a beefy hulk of a man. Beneath the cake of grime and sweat settled on his skin, Nat picks out winding snakes tattooed over his arms. _Those_ aren’t the arms she’s focused on: the shotgun at his waist is the cleanest thing on him. Next to it, she spies the handle of a knife resting in its sheath. Leather armor covers his chest and shoulders, punctuated with metal spikes here and there. He bedazzled it himself, by the looks of it. Cute. 

But her contempt flounders seconds later when he reels back a meaty arm and sends something soaring her way. Nat smacks against the ground, flattening to her belly in time for the bottle to shatter against the pallets in a hail of glass. Fragments patter against her coat. Her heartbeat smacks like a brick against her ribs. 

Peering cautiously through the gaps in the rotted wood, she sees him lean back again and let loose a warbling belch. A moment later, he’s unzipping his fly, and she’s sure he hasn’t seen her; a stream of piss wets the dirt. She scowls, plucking a shard of the broken bottle from her hair. 

_Bottles aren’t the same as bodies, darlin’,_ MacCready had teased her. Like the problem was something sentimental. There’s only one sentiment in her mind as she levels the pistol towards her target. He’s lined up and waiting, careless and unknowing.

Natasha squares her shoulders. Her finger twitches near the trigger, but doesn’t pull.

Just like the bottle. Just like the rooftop.

Her heart’s still hammering away. She rolls her breath in and out, deep and slow like a tide.

Just like when Nick said just to focus. Or when Piper said not to think about it too hard. Or when Preston said not to look the target in the face, just think about their body. Their body, that belongs on the ground.

The raider zips himself. Nat feels a flash of heat in her veins as she watches her narrow window of opportunity sliding shut.

Her trigger finger twinges again. He’s right there. A clear, clean shot. Nice and easy, like it should be. Except…

Natasha fires.

Except she’s _really_ fucking bad at this.

Before she can blink, there’s a shotgun shell blasting splinters through the pallets. Nat lurches for the grass. Dirt grits against her lips when she crashes there, face-first. Another round rockets through the space she dwelled a moment before.

It’s carnage in seconds; the raiders bark the alarm to each other like a pack of hounds. Natasha scrambles on all fours past the remnants of the pallets as they shatter into pieces. She finds shelter behind some barrels, but it’s only temporary; gunfire beats against her hideaway like a drum. 

Think. Breathe. What would MacCready do? 

Motes of wood and dust sting at her eyes. She searches the darkness of the treeline up the slope. No sign of her noble protector. Not hot enough for him to be bothered, apparently. She coughs against the tickle of the debris in her throat. The sound fills the gap of silence that falls sudden as a lightning strike.

They’re reloading. 

Natasha pushes from the ground, jolting above cover as if wound on a spring. Wild eyes find hers from the other side of the barrels. The shotgun’s in the raider’s hands, barrel empty, but not for long. He cocks it back. She hears the click of the round shift into the chamber. The bang is thunder in her ears. 

For a second, her vision goes spotty with after-images that echo the red hole burrowed through his neck. Then, the world settles back into place with the flood of air through her lungs. Natasha dives for the dirt. Fresh fire raps against the barrels. But the body on the other side doesn’t move.

Dirt cracks on her cheeks when her lips lift in a small, private smile of victory. One down. Natasha dares to peek around the edge of safety to reassess her foes. 

Sure, one down. Except that one is now...five. Eight. No, ten. There’s ten of them, all converging on her position. Panic sears in her chest and melts the last taste of triumph to ashes. A quick glance to either side, and she sees them closing in to flank her. A narrow path remains between her and the trees. A path that will soon close unless she burns a new one. 

Fuck. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck…_

Her fingers grope the ground for something, anything to cling to. They brush against glass: a half-empty stash of liquor, rolling around the base of the barrels that are filled with discarded bottles. Natasha holsters her pistol. When she jostles the container, the liquid inside sloshes alongside the nerves roiling in her stomach.

She slouches down against her cover, finding a sudden peace in following the next steps. Her fingers and her breath are steady as she twists the cap off. Calm as she draws the knife from her pocket. Certain as she tears a long strip from her flannel. When she feeds the fabric through the opening and finds the lighter in her pocket, there’s a prickle on her skin, a precursor to the flame that bursts to life at her fingertips and licks up the side of the cloth. 

At the next break in the gunfire, Natasha sends the molotov sailing. She doesn’t need to watch for the landing. The fire flares to life against the side of the barn with a ripping roar. Brilliant orange light bathes the hillside. 

Screams of terror pierce through the blazing shroud. Burning tendrils leak into the dry grass and set the brush aflame. Natasha weaves around the destruction seeping down the slope, bolting for the next patch of cover behind the belly of an overturned truck. 

Someone beats her there: another raider, this one wielding a machete honed to a keen edge. Natasha aims, fires, _misses_. The woman charges, blade raised high. Another bullet passes her face by inches. The third rockets past her shoulder. Nat’s breath tears between her teeth. Two shots left. The raider’s mere feet away. 

A frantic, manic part of her wants to squint her eyes shut, but she forces them to stay open, stay _focused_. She stiffens her arms, tightens her aim, and --

Something, _someone_ grips her shoulder. When Natasha fires, a firm hand jerks her arm down, and the bullet finds its home in the raider’s chest. The vice releases suddenly. Blood rushes back through her arm. Natasha turns to find MacCready’s furrowed brow beside her. He brought his matching scowl, and, most importantly, that wicked aim that would’ve been nice about five minutes ago. 

“What the hell was that?” He gestures towards the barn. The barn that’s now engulfed in flames, sweltering like a second sun. 

“What the hell was _that_?” Natasha rubs at the soreness seeping through her shoulder.

He pays her protest no mind. “You know the package we’re supposed to get is probably in there, right?”

Right. The job. The mission. The thing they were here for other than dangling Nat in front of the sharks. The thing she’d conveniently forgotten in the midst of trying to stay alive. She glances back at the barn. Black smoke drifts from the blaze. It’s only _half_ on fire, really. If they moved quickly…

“You said you’d help if things got too hot,” Nat grunts. “You weren’t helping, so I made it hotter.”

MacCready groans his annoyance, but before she gets another word in edgewise, he’s grabbing her again. Natasha lets out a shrill yelp of surprise as he angles her towards another raider who’s raised a rifle their way.

And then MacCready’s breath billows in her ear. He smells like pine trees, a scent that sticks even with smoke cloying in the air. Sandpapery stubble grazes her cheek, but it’s his low murmur that leaves a rough prickle on her skin.

“Shoot. Do it. _Now_.”

Natasha pulls the trigger, and MacCready pulls back on her shoulder.

Her shot burrows a bright red bullseye in her target’s forehead. A giant hole that’s gaping like her mouth. When MacCready releases her, she shivers, though there’s sweat slicked over her skin.

“What...how…?”

“You’ve got a twitch in your shoulder,” he mutters, firing at the pair of gunmen closing in on their sides. “A little recoil before the recoil. Picked it out on your first shot.”

Natasha blinks at him, dumbfounded. “But...no one’s ever... _huh_.”

She’d had a half-dozen wasteland tutors try to teach her right. None of them had noticed the truth he seemed so certain of. But then again, none of them could clear a horde of raiders with the practiced perfection of MacCready, who wears the self-satisfied smile of a job well done when the last one crumples into a bloody heap. 

Past the irritated edge to his expression, there’s a proud ease in his stature. “Yeah, well, you’ve upgraded your company since then. It’s small enough most folks might not see it. But I’ve got--”

“Sniper’s eyes, right. Nothing sharper.” 

But they’re not sharp now, when they fix back on her. There’s a playful lightness in his gaze that softens his entire face. The glow seeps into his skin, relaxing those lines of worry on his forehead. Here, in his element, he looks like a man ages younger.

“You’ll have to learn how to do that little counter maneuver on your own,” he teases. “I won’t always be there to hold you, killer.”

Natasha scoffs. He’s far too pleased with himself over that one. So pleased, he doesn’t have a prayer of seeing the return volley she has set and ready. 

But for now, at least, he’s earned the arrogance that lingers on his lips and seeps into his stride. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go fish that package out of the frying pan.”

Natasha bites back the easy kill. “Right behind you, partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In general, unless there's something outside of the in-game content that I want to include, I may skim past logistics of quest-giving as I did here for missions I'm assuming most are familiar with. If that ever gets confusing, let me know; the goal is to provide enough details so people can follow along without rehashing the entire quest dialogue :)
> 
> 2\. So...Nat's relationship with guns might be...complicated. Might be.
> 
> 3\. Just as a heads up, the alternating POVs are not always a chapter-by-chapter switch. I will sometimes switch (up to once) within a chapter, or, depending on the point in the story, we might have multiple chapters in a row from one POV. I'm thinking there will be more switching around in the upcoming bits.
> 
> 4\. Special thanks to @gingerbreton for patting me on the back and telling me to go get the scissors and cut the parts of this chapter that were just not working for me.
> 
> And another big, big thanks goes out to all of the friends and readers (both silent and otherwise) who have been so, so supportive through this. I hope you are enjoying the story so far, I look forward to sharing more soon! In the meantime, feel free to leave a comment with your thoughts or come say hello on Tumblr @adventuresofmeghatron.
> 
> Thank you all for reading <3


	4. Someone Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready watches the person watching his back. He wonders, and worries, about how little he actually knows of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I appreciate you bearing with me (and perhaps enjoying some of my other work) while this chapter took a little while to come together. Silver lining: it is the longest chapter thus far and, I hope, worth a little more of a wait.
> 
> No particular content warnings apply. Although, as always, if you think something needs to be added, please do let me know.

Gloved hands snake around MacCready’s arm and steer him past the dark eyes of the ghoul at the gate. They pass the peeling placard over Daisy’s Discounts where his own gaze lingers. Natasha leads at a measured pace. MacCready keeps his ears trained to the clip of her heel against the pavement, catching his breath and tying it down to the rhythm of their footfalls. Still, his heart bucks against his ribs. Stares flutter over them like gnats. Curious, prying eyes size up the newcomers in town. Or rather,  _ not _ -so-newcomers. 

MacCready tugs his hat down out of habit, frowning when his fingers find the slick brim of the borrowed fedora. It’s clamped too tight against his skull, just like the stiff collar of the loaned shirt that chokes like a noose against his throat. Buttons from the base of his Adam’s apple down the buckle of his belt pull the scratchy thing taut. Feels like radroaches nibbling at his skin. How the hell pre-war folks could shamble around in this garb all day is beyond him. 

“Quit fidgeting,” Natasha murmurs in his ear. MacCready grits his teeth.

Easy for her to say. Her disguise fits her like a glove: a dress of midnight blue hidden beneath a gray trench coat. Coat was a good call. Might catch some eyes otherwise. Natasha hides her own beneath the wide brim of black hat that shelters half her face.

Easy is what she  _ had _ said, come to think of it.  _ In and out, easy-peasy, no mess. _ The promise rolled off Natasha’s tongue as easy as liquor rolled down it. Easy plan, easy money. The Cabots had compensated generously for recovery of their precious package from Parsons Creamery, paying no mind to the burnt edges, or the scorched hillside they’d left in their wake. Rumors carried into Bunker Hill from a trade caravan told that the fire spread for miles until a radstorm doused the blaze days later. 

Hefty payment dropped into their outstretched hands, followed by a slow but sure trickle of piddly jobs that roused them out of Bunker Hill when the caps called to them. Simple delivery runs kept them on the Cabots’ payroll, but out of the crossfire of most wasteland dangers. Weeks went by in this manner. MacCready might’ve gotten ansty; their winnings were paltry compared to what the Cabots were capable of paying. Ed Deegan came to find them in the nick of time. More work.  _ Real _ work. Another recovery job, but one of a different sort.

Problem is, the last place where wayward Emogene was seen is the last place MacCready or Natasha want to  _ be  _ seen. So, Natasha’s plan is for them  _ not _ to be seen at all. At least, not  _ recognized _ . MacCready’s favorite hat and well-worn duster lay folded in his pack while the Cabots’ least-loved garments raise a rash on his skin. MacCready shifts in the sleeves of his oversized sport coat, using the motion to ease the itch on his arms. 

A rash, he can live with. Getting caught back in Goodneighbor? Not his favorite odds.

Their boots trade the brick avenue for the gravel alleyways. MacCready grits his teeth past the bile that rises in the back of his throat and tries not to think about how his footsteps feel suddenly  _ sticky _ . Or the stench of rot and retch. Or the putrid color the puddle he glimpses in a stray ray of the streetlights. 

MacCready dares another look to the main street behind them, catching the shine of the lamplight off the pavement. He bites the inside of his cheek against the flare of nerves in his chest. Scollay Square shimmers just as bright as it had when they’d fled from its neon halo to find sanctuary anywhere that would take them. He’d promised himself, swore he’d come back here one day. Make things right with Hancock. Find his way back to Daisy’s, and the unanswered letters that collected there. Once he had enough caps in his pocket. Once things in Goodneighbor had a chance to cool down.

This...isn’t how he pictured coming back here.

A silhouette flits past their alleyway. MacCready presses his back flat against the brick. It sinks a chill down his spine that doesn’t ease, even when he shrugs away. Natasha gestures for him to follow. Wordlessly, they slink further from the main avenue. The thin window to the street shrinks to a narrow sliver. 

MacCready leans a whisper to Natasha’s ear. “Remind me again how much they’re paying us for this?” 

“Four hundred caps."

“Thought Ed Deegan said three?”

“I said four. He said ‘okay’.”

_ Damn.  _ A soft chuckle untangles the nerves in his chest. “Did you try asking for five?” 

“Next time I will,” she winks.

They reach the alley’s end, clogged up at the back by a heap concrete tangled with...nevermind. Better not to look too close. Better to hold his breath, come to think of it.

He follows Natasha’s gaze to the rusted fire escape clinging for dear life to the ancient brick. Not-so-distant memories lash across his mind: tumbling from another brick wall, into another ill-fated alley. Maybe to their deaths, this time, instead of the warm and filthy embrace of a well-placed dumpster. His eyes trace from the metal stairs to the pavement, lingering on the empty space in between. He swallows.

“You’re sure this is Mags’ place?”

“Sure am.” 

Far from reassuring, Natasha’s confidence irks like a buzzing fly. Sure she’s sure. She’s  _ alway _ s sure. Or least, she always sounds like it. He casts a suspicious glance her way.

“Is this really--”

“What, you want to drop by the Third Rail and see her there? Maybe Charlie will let us have a drink first. You know, for old times.”

MacCready sighs. She’s right.  _ This _ time. “Point taken. How do you know where she lives, anyway?”

Silence slips between them. The sounds from the square filter through the side street on a chilly whistle of wind. Mac hears the haggard murmur of ghouls, footsteps falling on the cobblestones, growing closer than farther, the sound of his own breath pulling between his teeth as he bared them against the taste of rot that cloys the air. 

Natasha watches him expectantly. Just as he feels a wrinkle of annoyance pull on his face, a smug smile takes over hers. 

Wait...no way.  _ Really? _ A twinge of pink burns his ears. 

Natasha shrugs. “Don’t look so surprised,” she chides, but her tone isn’t bothered. “Some people think I’m charming or something.”

MacCready rolls his eyes. “Or something.”

“He says, as if it didn’t work on  _ him _ .”

MacCready scoffs, though his cheeks burn against the chill on the breeze. At least it’s  _ dark _ in this dingy alleyway. “Right. After you, since you’re so familiar with the place.”

__________________________

MacCready squints skeptically at the gaping window. It’s inky darkness on the other side, without a lick of light to hint at what they’re stepping into. The shadows shift inside; Natasha gestures impatiently. He casts one last wary glance to the pavement below. The fire escape sighs along with him on the wind that billows in the alley. MacCready ducks his head and slips through after her. 

His feet meet solid ground again. The floorboards croak an ornery greeting. MacCready freezes in place. He catches the glint of Natasha’s glare cutting towards him.

“Well,” a familiar voice drawls from the darkness, “You two sure are trouble.”

Shit.

MacCready throws up an arm to shield his gaze as light floods the room. Blinking rapidly to adjust, he slowly lowers his cover. When he does, he finds Magnolia seated, one leg crossed over the other, in a chair beside the door. A pistol rests on the table beside her. 

MacCready’s fingers twitch towards his own weapon, but he clenches his teeth and forces them to still.

This is _ Mags  _ they’re talking to. Mags, who bought him his first round after he laid claim to the VIP Room at the Third Rail. Mags, who sings sultry jazz numbers with a secret smile on her face. Mags, who apparently  _ slept _ with Natasha. Even if she did look more foe than friend at the moment. 

There’s no love lost between them now. MacCready watches those slender fingers and red-tipped nails curl around the gun. There’s a flash of fire on Magnolia’s face. Her eyes flicker warily between the two of them.

“Mags!” Natasha pants in relief MacCready envies. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Hm,” Mags puffs a laugh, but it’s thin as smoke. “Wish I could say the same, kitten. You do look something pretty. Left a bad taste around here, I’m afraid. But you already know that.”

_ Kitten? _ MacCready stifles a snicker beneath the heat of Magnolia’s glare. 

If Natasha shares half his nerves, she doesn’t show it. She saunters forward, hands at her sides. “Listen, I know we’re not exactly welcome faces right now. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. Someone’s in trouble and we’re trying to help her out. We’re looking for--”

“A lot of someones are looking for  _ you _ right now. Charlie’s got anyone and everyone knowing your names. You made a real mess of things.”

MacCready shifts abruptly, as if scalded. The floorboards moan in protest, but neither woman pays him any mind. Of course Charlie’s furious. He’d already known as much. Still, hearing it stings like salt against an open wound.

“You say you’re trying to help this girl out of trouble,” Magnolia muses. “How do I know you’re not just  _ giving  _ her trouble?”

MacCready clips past Natasha, throwing his hat into the ring. “Hey, who better to talk someone out of a tight spot then an expert at putting someone in it?”

Magnolia swivels her steely stare towards him. “I suppose you would know something about that, hanging around with this one.”

MacCready shrugs. “Wouldn’t still be doing it if the highs didn’t outpace the lows.”

Natasha sighs tightly. “I’m feeling so much love in this room.”

Magnolia chuckles dryly. Slowly, her fingers slink away from the pistol, and snatch a cigarette from the pack beside it. They wait for her verdict as she lights it and takes one, two long drags with her eyes fluttered shut.

“All right then. You ask your questions and you get out of here. You’re crawling back out that window, though. I don’t want Charlie thinking I’ve switched sides.”

Sides? It’s starting to sound like a  _ war _ he and Natasha had started, and not just a simple falling out and down into a decrepit alley. Had it come to that? Grudges being dug like trenches? Sounds like the kind of crap the Gunners would go on about. Nothing keeps a lackey from toeing too far over the line like the threat of losing that same toe if you get caught. It’s the lesson Winlock and Barnes came to remind him of that night he met Natasha. MacCready swallows the sudden thickness in his throat. 

Soon enough, it seems, there won’t be any sides left to take, and no cover left for shelter. The floorboards creak fretfully underfoot. He might as well be standing in no man’s land. 

But if lines were being drawn, Charlie wouldn’t be the one to paint them.

MacCready seizes his chance. “Is Hancock---”

Magnolia’s eyes open to narrow slits. “Is Hancock who you came here to ask about, handsome? You got time for one name. Sure you want that to be the one?”

Natasha’s smile is pressed in a closed, tight line. It might as well be pressed right against his throat. Sheepishly, MacCready retracts to the window.

“I...nah, forget it.”

“So,” Natasha picks up where he trailed off. “ _Emogene._ ”

__________________________

  
Filthy puddles splash against their boots when they rejoin the pavement. MacCready tilts his hat to shield his face as they pass back into the glow of the square. The luminescence soaks them in hungrily. Watchful eyes burn against his back. Still, MacCready feels certainty set in his steps as they near that peeling placard once more. 

“It’s late,” Natasha murmurs, voice brittle. “Should bed down in Bunker Hill and make our way to that amphitheatre in the morning.”

“Sure,” Mac mutters dismissively. “Just one last stop.”

“What?” Natasha hisses. “That wasn’t the--”

“You can wait outside,” Mac says dismissively. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Bullshit. I’m with you.”

Her conviction staggers him for a moment. MacCready catches the hard edge of her eyes. A frown folds down the corners of his lips.

“Mags said they’re looking for you and me both,” Natasha steps in front of him, arms crossed. “I’m not gonna stand outside and wait for you to sell me out.”

MacCready stiffens. “Not everything’s about you.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” she mutters, falling into step beside him.

MacCready sheds his shadow by the door. Natasha gives him room to breathe, but only just. He feels her eyes boring into his back as he saunters towards the counter.

His favorite shopkeep is paging through a well-loved novel that’s wilted at the spine. Daisy cradles it between two weathered palms in her lap. She doesn’t peel her eyes from the page until he clears his throat. Even then, she scarcely spares him a glance. 

“Can I help you?” She drones, disinterested.

MacCready gives a final once-over to the quiet shelves. No prying eyes peering his way. Natasha’s turned her attention to the street. At least he knows his back is covered. The twist in his chest eases.

“Hey,” he whispers. “It’s me.”

_ “MacCready _ ?!” Daisy gasps.

“Shh, Daisy! No one can know I’m here.”

“You  _ shouldn’t _ be here, kid.”

“So I’ve heard. Look, we’re gonna get right out of your hair, it’s just been a few weeks since the last caravan, and while we were here, I wanted to--”

The sound of her book folding shut cuts him short. Scowling, Daisy sets it aside to rummage through a stack of envelopes in the cabinet behind her. Beneath her breath, Daisy mutters sternly, “I sure hope she’s something special.”

MacCready shuffles his feet. Natasha’s out of earshot, but only just. “She’s...something.”

Something sarcastic, and a little hair-brained. But relentless. Immovable. 

“Trouble, if I’ve ever seen it. Are you sure about what you’re stepping in? Not too late to brush it off your shoe.”

Daisy brandishes a battered envelope. Tenderly, MacCready takes it. The paper is yellowed with age, and crisp with rippling watermarks. Must’ve stormed along the route from Capital Wasteland to Goodneighbor. He thumbs the folded edge, tempted to open it at once, to sate the burn of nerves sizzling beneath his skin. Biting his lip, he thinks the better of it, and tucks the envelope into his breast pocket. From another pocket, he pulls a metal tin, and scoots it across the counter.

Daisy’s mouth falls open as she lifts it. The caps scrape and rattle inside. “Mac?” Daisy crosses her arms, forehead knit in concern. 

MacCready shrugs sheepishly. “Guess I scraped it off my shoe. Thinkin’ there’s more where that came from.”

“I know you’re hard for caps, but you were hard for caps when you joined the Gunners, too. Remember how that played out?”

An ache tugs in his chest. Desperate times led to desperate measures. MacCready catches the brim of Natasha’s dark hat from the corner of his eye. The difference is, this time, he’s not the only desperate one. 

The difference is in the caps on the counter. Caps earned in a matter of weeks that would’ve taken any other mercenary a matter of months. Natasha put the right words in the right ears, and paid him the right price to quell the problems that sprouted in her wake. 

A few more good pay days, and Goodneighbor will be a problem of the past, too. 

“Look,” MacCready sighs, “she’s got a kid she’s lookin’ out for, too. Might’ve bit off more than I could chew here, but it’s nice to have someone watching my back for a change.”

“Heard about her kid,” Daisy says, voice softening. “She’s a sad story, but the Commonwealth’s full of them.”

MacCready blinks, flabbergasted. “You’ve heard--?”

“Half the Commonwealth has by now,” Daisy murmurs. “Here. Should know about who you’re dealing with.”

She slides a sheath of newsprint across the counter. MacCready catches the headline:  _ A View From the Vault.  _ Hastily, he tucks the article out of view inside his jacket. His thoughts race alongside his nerves.

A story about Natasha. One someone  _ else _ wrote. Maybe that means it’s actually true.

“You’re one of the good ones, MacCready. You just take care.” Daisy cautions. “Someone who’s watching your back is in the prime place to stab it.”

The warning grates on his ears. He licks his lips, finding the familiar twist of a smug smile, but it feels faulty. The words of reassurance dry on the tip of his tongue. 

Daisy doesn’t press him further. “I’ll keep these letters safe for you. I’ll try to send word to Savoldi’s if I hear anything.”

“Thanks, Daisy,” he manages. “You’re a doll.”

“Stay sharp out there.”

“Always am.” He tips his hat to her as he goes. 

Natasha melts from the doorframe to fall into stride beside him. “You ready to get the hell out of here?”

He pats the envelope in his breast pocket, brushing a thumb down the crisp edge. By the time they reach the gate, the itch of his nerves dissolves. Even the jacket hardly scratches. Every footstep floats a little lighter. A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Sure thing, _ kitten _ .”

Natasha snorts. “Oh? Is that what we’re doing,  _ handsome? _ Yeah, I saw you turn pink when she called you that.”

“Don’t know about that.”

“ _I_ know about that. I also know your awful lines, so you’re gonna have to try a lot harder.”

__________________________

MacCready wakes to dampened sheets.

Grimacing, MacCready rubs the ache of sleep from the lines of his face. His hand comes away wet. Sweat slicks the crown of his head. He untangles himself from the blankets twisted around his legs, and drags them to wipe his face clean. The mattress moans a muffled whine as he shifts. His hands find the rippled sheet of paper, spread flat between two stones, laid out on the bedside table. The words are swathed in darkness, but he has them all memorized by now, anyway.

_ No change. Still fighting the fever. He misses you.  _

Beside his peace of mind lies the heap of words that weighs on it _. A View from the Vault. _ A bad bed-time story. One that had white lab coats and electric-eyed synths seeping into his dreams alongside the ghouls and Gunners. 

The Commonwealth has plenty of boogeymen to go around. He would know. He used to break bread with some of them.

Still, the Institute has every other drifter shaking in their skin these days. Daisy soaked up the speculation in the article, or she wouldn’t have passed it his way. Besides a dredge of speculation, and fresh fodder for his nightmares, the article told him less than Natasha had. All the same, what difference does it make? If the Institute wanted Natasha, they would’ve taken her. It’s not like she’s got any shot at taking  _ them _ down. 

He’ll hear no hell from the Institute for teaching Natasha how to shoot. And she’ll hear nothing from him about it being a lost cause. 

“Shit -- shoot.” MacCready stutters out the curse when he stands too quickly, smacking his nose against the door. It’s not a room, really. It’s a closet. Barely enough space to breathe, let alone stand up. 

_ No change. Duncan’s still breathing. _

Starlight leaks in through the ramshackle walls. Walls. If you could call them that. It’s a spattering of loose planks and chicken wire that hold the room together. He rests a hand on the wall behind the head of the bed; it feels thin and papery, and peels up slightly when he draws his hand away. Bunker Hill’s one and only “inn” couldn’t hold a candle to the Hotel Rexford. But light a candle in here, and you might just set the whole damn place on fire. 

The remnants of the nightmare still hitch in his breath. Air. It’s exactly what he needs, but the little whistle of wind cutting through the gaps in the siding is hardly enough. MacCready swipes his hat off the floor, hitches his rifle over his shoulder, and steps outside.

The night air rushes to meet him. A chill shivers down his spine, but he relishes the hairs it stands on end. He closes his eyes and drinks in the breath hungrily, tasting the hints of smoke that linger there. Sniffing, he picks out the bitter menthol of his favorite brand on the breeze. MacCready’s eyes flicker open.

“Those rooms are too fucking small.” Natasha’s face is sheltered in smoke and shadow, only half visible in the pulse of firelight that crackles near her feet.

“Yeah,” he pants, wincing at the scrape of his own voice in his throat. It sounds thin. Rusty. Weak. He swallows to clear it, and then saunters to sit beside her in the dirt. He paws at his pockets for his lighter, but she presents hers before he finds it, alongside a cigarette. He takes it between his fingers, lets her light it for him, and settles back to let the taste chase away the last lurking pieces of his dreams. For a few moments, they drift in quiet. The fire snaps. 

“You've been doing this a long time.”

Natasha doesn’t ask. She says. Says it the same way she said ‘you’re a father’ that day in the Hotel Rexford. Like she’s already got it all puzzled out, and she’s waiting to see what cards he’ll play, and which he’ll keep close to his chest. 

She showed her hand that day, too. Or that Vault-Tec ghoul showed it for her. Good thing he did, or MacCready might have taken off to beg for Hancock’s forgiveness and left her in the dust. Forgiveness yet to be granted. Another aching sore in the list of bruises on his reputation in the Commonwealth. 

He thinks of her declaration back in Goodneighbor.  _ I’m with you, _ she said, unshakably certain. For now.

But if he’d walked away, he wouldn’t have half the caps in his pocket right now. For all the problems Natasha inspires, she has him halfway to solving more than she knows. And he still hardly knows a thing about her.

MacCready takes a long drag from his cigarette, lets the smoke billow warm and bitter in his lungs, then watches it curl and coil into the night sky. 

If it’s a game Natasha wants, then she’ll have to play, too. 

“Which part?” he grunts.

“The you against the world thing.”

Mac sniffs a laugh. “Yeah, that pretty much starts from day one for most folks. That stops, and you’re probably gonna stop breathing before long, too.”

“Somebody had to teach you to shoot.”

“Not me. I’m completely self-taught. Picked up a sniper rifle when I was ten.” He pauses, flicking the end of his cigarette, and watching the glow of cinders dapple the dirt between his boots. “So,” he drags his gaze back to hers, “you impressed yet?”

Natasha shrugs, but doesn’t bite. Still, if the angle of her brow is any indicator, he’s hooked her curiosity.

“Aw, come on. You’ve got that shoulder twitch, but you know how to size up a mark. I can’t be the first one you picked to fight your battles for you. Sure you know talent when you see it.”

Natasha snorts a laugh, a sound that snaps like the fire as flecks of ash drift into the night air. “What, pay me half a compliment so you can get yours? You really are a penny-pincher.”

MacCready licks his lips. Beg for an inch from this woman, and she’ll have you walking a mile.

“You’ve got skills, all right? Wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have some handle on this you against the world thing, too. Never seen somebody talk folks into dumping their caps out like you do. You’re a frickin professional.”

“Used to be,” Natasha murmurs. She tugs a bottle MacCready hadn’t noticed from the darkness. Amber liquid sloshes inside, while emptiness occupies its other half. Whiskey, maybe. She tilts it to her lips and takes a long-drawn slug. When she pulls away, her eyes leak down to the liquor lurking at the bottom.

He presses his luck. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs again. “Used to be I opened my mouth and the money would just pour. I was a  _ professional. _ Like you said.” Her lip curls when she speaks, as if she’s tasted something foul. She douses it with another drink.

His eyes narrow, studying the drift of her fingertips to the weathered label on the side of the bottle. They fidget, restlessly, tugging at the edge of the paper. Picking. Peeling.

Pretty, slender hands that haven’t farmed a single day, and wear callouses fresh as untouched snow. The marks and mars are superficial. Only skin deep. Even the ones that haunt the hollows of her cheeks, and the darkness beneath her distant eyes. She wears the wasteland like a spring jacket. As if it’s something she’ll shed when warm weather comes along again. Like it’s just a passing part she’ll play. 

“Were you an actress or something?”

Natasha cracks a smile, but it doesn’t breach the fogged-over fade on her face. “You’re getting better at your compliments. But no, I was an attorney.”

MacCready shields his ignorance behind another drag. She fills in the blanks for him while the smoke fills his lungs. 

“People hired me when they got in trouble to help talk them out of it.”

“Guess that’s why you’re so good at talking people into it.”

“It’s like you told Mags. Two sides of the same coin, really.”

She tilts the bottle towards MacCready without so much as a glance his way. The phrase singes in his skin when he takes a swig and sees the shape of her face warp through the body of the glass. The burn drops to his belly with the swallow.

“So,” he prods, “you always play high stakes, life and death sort of deal, or are we talking boring paperwork behind a desk crap I’ve heard about?”

She leans forward, chin propped on her knuckles. “What sort of things find themselves at the other end of a ten-year-old’s rifle?”

His turn, she’s decided. Fine by him. MacCready shrugs. “Whatever’s stupid enough to get in their way. Had to come up with every trick in the book to survive Capital Wasteland.”

“Shaun’s ten by now. I think.”

The burn in his belly morphs into a brick. Dead weight in his chest that matches the stony overcast in her eyes. Natasha’s stare bores in him. 

“You’ll have to enlighten me, then,” she murmurs softly. “It’s not an experience I’m familiar with.”

Well...shit. MacCready feels his edges crumble.

“I...uh...well I wasn’t entirely on my own,” he fumbles. The weight pressed in the line of her lips eases. She leans back, listening. “Never knew my parents. Lived underground in a place called Little Lamplight with a bunch of other kids.”

MacCready sets his sights to the stars glinting in the heavens. Something in him knows it’s supposed to be pretty. Now that the nightmare dust has settled, the chill in the air nips sharp at his skin. Nothing comforting in sitting out in the open for the whole world to spot you unawares. He’d trade the stars in a heartbeat for a rocky ceiling overhead.

“Kind of had a policy there: no adults,” he continues.

She scoffs. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know it sounds crazy. But having adults around was just something we couldn’t trust.”

“Bullshit.” 

MacCready rolls his eyes. “It’s not. It wasn’t any different than any other colony you’d find anywhere. Everyone pulled their weight. We all had our designated jobs, and we’d watch each others’ backs. I was even the mayor for a little while -- aw, come on, really?!” 

Natasha chokes on her own laughter, muffling the sound with her sleeve. He snatches the whiskey from her grip and simmers with another slug while she sputters away. 

“Man, Mac. That’s better than my KGB spiel.”

MacCready grits his teeth. “I wasn’t spewing crap like you were. All that stuff is true.”

She searches his face, laughter fading. He feels the edges of his scowl deepen beneath her scrutiny. “Seriously?”

“ _ Yes! _ ” He wrings his hands in exasperation. “Don’t get what’s so hard to believe. I’m the one who’s been telling the truth the whole time.”

Natasha sniffs, snagging the whiskey back from his grasp before slinking down in the dirt. They lay in stiff silence, until she speaks again, and turns brittle into broken.

“Is...Little Lamplight where Duncan is now?”

The name shoots lightning beneath his skin. MacCready sits bolt upright, breath flaring in his chest with a sudden rush of indignation. He catches it and swallows it down, all the while, feeling his face flex with the wear on his patience. Natasha isn’t looking at him. She’s looking at the bottle. Her eyes glow with the flicker of firelight off the surface of the glass. She frets at the curled edge of the label. 

_ She’s sad and drunk and lonely and missing her son _ , a small voice in the back of his brain tells him.

“Can’t pay me enough for that to be your business,” MacCready grunts, pressing from the dirt and dusting off his pants. “We got business to take care of tomorrow.”

He trudges back towards their meager lodging. Natasha stays strewn across the ground by the fire, bottle by her side.

The anger snaps like a rubber band in his chest. “Hey,” he snips. “I don’t want to come drag you out of another hangover tomorrow. I’m not missing out on those caps.”

“You won’t,” she speaks over him. Then, she whispers faintly, voice drifting like the plumes of smoke, “Those rooms are too small.”

The last of the label flakes from the bottle beneath Natasha’s fingernails, and drifts to the ground like ash.

__________________________

Sleep comes in sweaty snatches in between the sound of tin cans scraping against cement and the crunch of boots against gravel. MacCready unburies his head from beneath the pillow in time for the dawn light to seep through the cracks in the ramshackle walls. Soreness sinks in circles behind his eyes. He rubs them with an ornery groan.

Natasha never went back to her room last night. He knows, because he managed to hear every other rustle through the holes in the walls. MacCready would’ve noticed the shadow on the other side of the flimsy barrier, and the sound of her sigh against his ear as if she was in the same damn bed. Too close for comfort. Or maybe not close enough. At least the noisy drone of her snore meant she  _ wasn’t _ passed out drunk in the dirt like he specifically asked her not to do.

He dresses quickly, surly frown simmering. He pockets his things, checks twice, a third time, for his precious piece of paper, slings his rifle over his shoulder and sucks in the air he’ll need to deliver the earful he’s rehearsing in his mind.

_ You can’t just talk caps, you’ve gotta earn them. You said you wanted help, well I’m helping you, but you’ve gotta get yourself off the fricken ground-- _

“Breakfast?”

Her voice splashes against him like cold water. Natasha leans over the cookfire with a pair of skewers. Hesitantly, MacCready takes one, chewing on the tough but tangy molerat all the while mulling over  _ her _ . 

Her friend, the whiskey bottle, lays on its side in the dirt where MacCready had left her. Must’ve kept her warm through the night; there’s just a sliver of amber left at the bottom. As for how that liquor is treating her now, MacCready can’t tell. He eyes her over the edge of his breakfast.

“What?” Natasha prompts, catching the edge of his stare. “You just realizing the food is disgusting, or is something else eating you?”

MacCready wrinkles his nose. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like some Diamond City upper crust with a stick wedged up their-- you know.”

“Darn it, really?” Natasha falls back into her typical tone. “I was going for somewhere closer to the market.”

MacCready rolls his eyes. “Don’t see what it has to do with anything. You gonna be ready to go in a minute here? Can’t have the trail getting cold. Not sure how big of a deal this little cult is supposed to be. Community of Pillars or whatever. Fricken fanatics.”

“Pillars of the Community,” Natasha corrects. She slides back into the alternate voice in the same manner she slides on a pair of leather gloves. When they’re tugged tight to her fingertips, she gestures emphatically. “And they’re not fanatics, just a couple con men selling nostalgia. I’ve seen their operation before. Knock a couple screws loose and they’ll fold right up.”

“Sure,” MacCready mulls, unconvinced. “You point, I shoot.”

Natasha shrugs into a battered old trench coat. MacCready’s scowl deepens. When did she swipe  _ that? _ It’s nice, if a bit flashy. It’s got more sleeves than his duster, anyway. More color, too; the clay tint picks up the hint of red in her hair. Not much leather like that around these days. 

Natasha winks, pulling on a salvaged flat cap. MacCready hasn’t seen that hat before, either. He finds his fingertips suddenly itchy. Might be worth a double check through his own things, when he catches a break from her prying eyes.

“We play this right,” she drawls in someone else’s voice, “we won’t  _ have _ to shoot.” 

Again with the waving and gesturing. MacCready casts a suspicious glance back towards the bottle in the dirt. Maybe she doesn’t seem hungover because she’s still drunk. 

“What the heck are you doing with your hands?”

“Getting into character.”

__________________________

“Put the gun down.”

MacCready shoots Natasha an incredulous glance. “But--”

“Just trust me on this one!”

Right, like that hadn’t bitten him in the ass before. But, you know what they say about making your bed and laying in it. Still, the thought doesn’t ease the crawl of nerves raising hairs along his spine as they saunter towards the open half-dome of the Charles View Amphitheater. 

Half a dozen blank faces drift about the compound that’s littered with pre-war memorabilia. MacCready spies a pair of televisions with gray screens as vacant as the eyes that stare into them, and pretty-looking posters from the good old days tacked to the metal siding. Before the blaze of tire fire casting the stench of burning rubber into the air, a hawk-eyed man in a faded fedora presides over his dominion.

MacCready suppresses a snort. He’d seen mudcrabs with more impressive posses. No heads turn to track their approach besides the ringleader. The drifters mill about in moth-eaten clothes from a bygone era. Maybe the moths ate their brains, too. 

“Why hello there, neighbor!” Fedora man smiles, and the curl of his moustache droops with the curl of his lip. It’s  _ fake _ , MacCready realizes. Painfully so. The man beams with a relentless, plastic grin. “Welcome! Are you here to learn about our little movement? Changed my life. It can change yours, too!”

Natasha strolls lazily towards him, until her shadow falls across his face and he’s forced to crane his neck to meet her look of disdain. When she speaks, it’s with the voice she practiced earlier that morning. 

“Oh, buddy. I killed the last guy that was running this scam. Don’t think we need a rinse and repeat, do we?”

MacCready coughs to hide the anxious scrape of his laughter. A cocky sneer blooms on Natasha’s cheeks while fear blanches the other man’s skin. 

Wait... _.really?  _ MacCready’s jaw drops.

Fedora man’s eyes widen with recognition. “You.”

“ _ Me _ ,” she answers evenly.

“What do you  _ want? _ ” He hisses in a whisper.

“Emogene Cabot.”

“Shit, you can have her,” he growls, thrusting a key into Natasha’s gloved hands. “Just please  _ leave _ .”

“Thanks for being a good sport.” 

She ruffles his hair as she passes, sending his hat tumbling to the dust. He scrambles after it, stringing together profanities beneath his breath. 

“What are you staring at?” He spits at Mac when he catches him gawking.

MacCready doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he jogs to catch up to Natasha, who’s fitting the key into the door to a concrete building behind the amphitheatre.

“So,” he leans against the cool brick with a rolling laugh. “You really killed that guy’s boss? How slow did he run?”

“I shot  _ at _ him,” she responds quietly. Her voice is her own again. “I did  _ see _ him die.”

MacCready’s easy smile dissolves. Figures. Another misdirect. “So why’d he seem scared senseless just from seeing you?”

She gives him a critical side glance. “Come on, MacCready, you’re smart. I’m sure you know talent when you see it.”

The recycled barb peels MacCready from the wall and cuts away the last trace of his smirk. The outfit. The voice. It pieces together as the door glides open on rusty hinges. “He thought you were someone else."

“Winner winner. Just gotta see our girl safely home and then you can get your prize.”

For a moment, MacCready studies the shade of the cap over her eyes, and the collared silhouette the trench coat casts behind her. Who was the other woman who used to follow in Natasha’s shadow? The one who’s sound and mannerisms she knows well enough to step into like a well-worn pair of shoes? The one that actually  _ won _ the fights that Natasha started? 

The one that’s not with her anymore?

MacCready shrugs from the questions that claw at the back of his mind, fixing an easy smile to his face. “Easiest four hundred caps I’ve ever made.”

__________________________

By the time they cross the Charles, it’s only halfway to noon. At this rate, they’ll be back in Bunker Hill with caps heavy in their pockets by lunchtime. Emogene had insisted on finding her own way home, and so spared MacCready and Natasha the delight of her grating company. 

Gray water laps at the concrete lip around the riverwalk, offering up a rippled reflection of a cloudless sky. His eyes trace between the jagged edges of wrecked storefronts, seeking out signs of movement. For a second, his hand twitches for his gun. Then, his grip eases. Just a tumbleweed of trash and twigs, bowling through the empty streets. No pitter-patter of gunfire in the distance. No scrabbling of mirelurks or mutants or ghouls.

It’s quiet. Peaceful, even. And mind-numbingly _ boring.  _

MacCready snuffs out a cigarette against the arched railing over the bridge, whistling a cheery tune beneath his breath. Natasha quirks a brow his way.

He shrugs, sheepish. “Don’t you hate when that stuff they play gets stuck in your head?”

Natasha’s only answer is the smallest twitch at the edge of her lips. The private smile catches a stray thought flickering through his mind; one of the questions crawling there earlier comes creeping to the forefront.

“Neat little trick you did back there, changing your voice around. Where’d you learn that, anyway?”

He waits for the borrowed barb where she tells him she’s entirely self-taught. Maybe she’ll even say she was Mayor of Boston, just to twist it in a little deeper.

But she doesn’t. Something wistful washes over her.

“A friend of mine used to write and draw for graphic novels,” she says. “We used to mess around and do character voices together. She got me a summer job doing dubs for this cartoon--”

“Wait,” MacCready stops short. “Your friend did comics? Which ones?!”

“You wouldn’t have heard of it.” She answers quietly.

“Aw, come on! I’ve got every single issue of  _ Grognak _ except the one where Mastadonald and Skullpocalypse fight him together. I know a thing or two about comics!”

“Graphic novels.”

“Graphic --  _ whatever _ . You gonna tell me what it’s called?”

A coy smile curves on her lips. “So, every single issue except the one, huh? You ever been to Hubris Comics?”

Dodging questions with more questions. Typical. But mention of Hubris has him forgetting all about her forlorn mumbling. “I’ve seen the billboards. Any idea if it’s still standing?”

“I don’t know. But I do know they used to shoot for the Grognak TV special in the studio there.”

“No way!”

“Way,” Natasha assures him. “We should check it out sometime.”

Well, they  _ do _ have half the day to their disposal. But before he can propose a change of course, Natasha is already diverting their path. She makes for the steely glint of a fire escape zig-zagging to a flat gravel rooftop. MacCready peers at her curiously. 

“What?” She shrugs. “We trekked all the way out here. We got all day. Caps will still be there when we get back.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” MacCready admits reluctantly. If it weren’t for Cabots’ imperviousness to the passage of time, he might’ve argued with her. But they had to have made a deal with the devil to keep that pristine house of theirs. Their caps would be kept just fine for a few hours.

They climb to the roof and move through the motions of a familiar routine: Natasha sets the bottles in a line. MacCready slightly shifts each one. They swipe side-eyes and shrugs about it.

Except this time, her stubborn shadow drifts away during the process. MacCready peers over his shoulder to find her fiddling with her PipBoy. Static crackles fitfully. 

He scowls with a pulse of annoyance. “Hey!”

“Huh? Oh, right.” Natasha sets the PipBoy down beside their packs. The thing’s still gargling white noise. MacCready wrinkles his nose.

“You’re the one who wanted to practice so bad,” MacCready chides tersely. “Focus up.”

She says nothing. Instead, she takes aim with her revolver. Mac grumbles, analyzing her stance. He tweaks her grip before stepping back.

Glass shatters. MacCready’s eyes narrow: it’s broken, but only just. The bullet clipped the side.

“Watch that shoulder,” he tells her.

She doesn’t. She fires again, this time, riddling the target straight through. MacCready scowls.

“Hey, I said watch that shoulder!”

“I hit it, didn’t I?”

“Only ‘cause it’s sitting still. Here.”

His thumb finds the groove where her clavicle meets her shoulder, while his fingers ease back the muscle behind it. Natasha lets his motion guide her arm back by the barest centimeter. A stray strand of her hair tickles his nose. He angles his face away, suppressing a sneeze. Huh. Kind of smells...nice.

“Here,” he murmurs. “Try that.”   
  
She fires: a nice, clean shot.

“Again,” he says. “Just like that.” 

She fixes another target in her sights. Slowly, MacCready peels his fingers away. She holds her frame in place, just as he left it. Another clatter of glass decorates the rooftop. She beams, triumphant, over her shoulder. 

“Not bad,” he concedes.

She studies him keenly. “I want to try yours.”

“What, my sniper?” 

“Yeah, why not?”

“Okay, hot shot,” he sniffs a laugh. “Watch and learn.”

MacCready takes a knee near the edge of the rooftop, fitting the rifle against his shoulder. He soaks in the corpse of old Boston through the scope, scanning for signs of life amongst the heaps of debris. Something near the water snags his attention: another heap of gray, but this one’s skittering by the riverside. A mirelurk. He centers it within his sights.

Static noise crinkles behind him. Grunting with annoyance, Mac peels away from the target long enough to catch Natasha putzing her with PipBoy again from the corner of his eye. So much for his studious pupil. 

With an overdrawn sigh, MacCready refocuses his attention. He sucks in another breath, holds it captive in his chest, and lets the bullet soar. His exhale chases after the shot. MacCready straightens from his crouch. A fresh splatter paints the pavement where the mirelurk moves no more. 

Easy pickings, but he finds a self-satisfied smirk all the same. This place needed a bit of color.

The static grounds against his ears, souring his expression. “Hey, rookie! You’re up!”

Reluctantly, she parts from the PipBoy, which she’s left on and crooning. MacCready lets out another tight sigh. He slides the rifle into her grip and braces it against her shoulder.

“Unless you want the kickback leaving you black and blue, you’re gonna want this locked nice and tight,” he speaks from behind her, against her ear. “Biggest thing you need to remember is your breath. If you can’t control your breathing, you can’t control a sniper rifle, and you might as well not use it.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

“Sure,” Mac snickers. “Pick a target and we’ll see about that.”

“How about crab legs over there?”

MacCready follows her line of sight to a second mirelurk, hobbling it’s way to the water’s edge.

“When you’re ready,” Mac says quietly, “take a deep breath in. Hold it there. Let the bullet go before your breath does.”

Before he pulls away, he feels her body tense, taut as a bowstring with the inhale coiled in her chest. MacCready steps back, studying the angle of her grip, the fit of the rifle against her body, the calm, quiet poise of her stare through the sights. 

The shot’s perfect. She doesn’t know it, or she wouldn’t be hesitating. MacCready doesn’t speak, just studies in silent, begrudging respect as she puzzles through the motions, exhaling, and then catching the next wave and holding it hostage as she realigns. 

A sniper’s instinct. One  _ he _ didn’t see, not until now. Her fingers twitch. MacCready finds himself fascinated by their curve towards the trigger. 

He sucks a breath in, too. Waiting. Watching. Any second--

_ Blip. Blip. Blip.  _

Suddenly, the static from the PipBoy clears. In its stead beats a slow, and steady pulse. A singular, persistent sound. 

_ Blip. Blip. Blip.  _

Natasha slips from her stance and lowers the rifle. “It  _ works _ .”

MacCready furrows his brow. “What works?” 

Unceremoniously, she shoves the gun back into his hands and seizes the PipBoy. She whispers again, awestruck, “It works.”

MacCready saunters over, arms crossed. “What the heck kind of station is that?”

“It’s not a station. It’s a signal.”

“Who’s broadcasting?”

“An Institute courser.”

MacCready gawks at her. “How-- Why--?”

“Because they’re the ones who have my son. As for how…” she drifts to the roof’s edge, slinking to a seat with her legs dangled over. “Well, you already know half the story, and you’ve been trying to wheedle something out of me for weeks, so why not?"

Tentatively, MacCready stoops to sit beside her. He takes the cigarette when she offers, silently thankful for the shelter of the smoke to cloud the alarm bells ringing through his mind. When Natasha forgoes sating her own habit, MacCready feels a fresh battery of nerves kick against his ribs.

The Institute has her son after all -- the article was right. She’s got a courser signal in her pocket. And a pocket knife in her hands, with pretty gold initials that aren’t hers. She flips it through her fingers, barely wincing when it nicks her knuckles.

She’s right: he’s been trying to feel her out for weeks, waiting for the other shoe, and trying not to stand in its shadow when it inevitably drops. They had a good thing going, with caps flowing in on a steady current. She’s not bad company, and with a little time, not a half bad shot, either. MacCready forces himself to swallow and sucks in the bitter burn of nicotine. 

Good things don’t last. 

“Nate was military,” Natasha speaks to the blade in her hands. “Military families were first on the list for the vaults. Lucky us.” 

She laughs, faintly. It sounds like a broken bottle meeting the concrete. MacCready waits, for answers, or the other shoe, while his smoke rings tangle in the breeze.

“So, ten years, ago I wake up--”

“Thought you said six months?” MacCready interjects. 

She presses on as if he’d never even spoken. “--and watch this fuck named Kellogg put a bullet in my husband’s chest and steal my baby. They put me back under until six months ago, when I woke up again. Don’t know how or why, but here we are.”

“Shit. _ Shoot.  _ That’s...I’m so--”

“So I bury Kellogg,” Natasha continues, matter-of-factly. “And then I have to dig him up again because it turns out we needed his brains, which are painting a pretty picture underneath some rubble--”

“You killed  _ the _ Kellogg?” Mac sputters. 

“Friend of yours?” Natasha swivels a cold glare his way. MacCready shivers. 

“Not even a little. Rumor was that the guy didn’t have any friends. He had a reputation. How did _ you _ manage to--”

“A fuck ton of grenades,” Natasha snaps. “You gonna let me talk, MacCready?”

MacCready buries his misgivings on his next drag.

“So,” she continues with a fresh edge, “we plug into Kellogg’s brain at the Memory Den. Weird shit, but he’s the only one who could know  _ where _ the Institute is, and where they have Shaun. We do the deep dive through Kellogg’s memories and come out the other side with the name of an Institute defector. But, of course,  _ he’s _ hiding out in the Glowing Fucking Sea. Because of course he is.”

She pauses, rifling through her pocket for the cigarette she decided she wants, after all. MacCready takes the opening. “What does any of that have to do with a courser signal?”

“I went to the Glowing Sea. The defector said the only way into the Institute is to teleport there. And to do that, we’re gonna need the chip from a courser’s brain.”

MacCready sniffs. No other shoe, after all. Just the pit in his stomach sinking deeper. “You almost had me,” he mutters bitterly.

“I...what?” 

The catch in her throat is almost enough to catch  _ him. _ Almost. 

To her credit, it’s convincing. The bit where her lip quivers, just a little, is a nice touch. The glassy ripple swimming over the sharpness in her eyes leaves a sting of would-be sympathy aching in his chest. Maybe she wasn’t an actress before the war. But he’s seen enough of her handiwork to know she’d  _ kill  _ at that job. 

“Aw, come on,” MacCready says tersely. “Really with this crap? Again?”

She stops short of flicking the lighter to life, instead, staring back at him with a spark of indignation. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t like the answers.”

“I don’t like being lied to,” MacCready asserts, matching her glare. “Look you already bought me with the sympathy play. I’ve saved your life a dozen times. Wouldn’t kill you to start being straight with me.”

“Here’s something straight for you, asshole!” She flips him her middle finger as she lights herself a smoke.

“You didn’t  _ go _ to the Glowing Sea,” he snaps, heat rising in his cheeks. “You’re not KGB, and you don’t drink blood for breakfast. You drink yourself to  _ sleep _ .”

Natasha’s anger fizzles into a snarky smirk. She props her chin on her arm, watching him with a bemused expression. “You believed I was in cryostasis for two hundred plus years. That I’m from before the war. The Glowing Sea is a real place. Maybe the  _ one _ place where the Institute can’t find you. What makes this so hard for you to swallow?”   
  
MacCready shakes his head, snuffing out his cigarette prematurely. The taste had grown foul on his tongue. “There’s no way you trekked through the Glowing Sea and back.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not possible! I’ve known life-long mercs that couldn’t do it, let alone someone like--”

“Like what, MacCready?”

“Someone like you!”

The smirk twists on her face. When she speaks again, her voice is a knife. “There  _ is _ no one like me.”

MacCready utters an exasperated sigh. The sole survivor: a pre-war antique out of cryostasis. She’s right. There is no one else like her. One of a kind. 

The kind that could barely fire a gun a few weeks ago. 

“Look,” he holds up his hands in defeat. “I’ve never met  _ anybody _ that could make it through that place in one piece. It’s nothing personal.”

“Yeah?” She asks quietly, smile fading to a firm, immovable line.

“Yeah,” MacCready says firmly. “Are we go--  _ what the heck are you doing?! _ ”

Natasha shrugs from the sleeves of the trench coat, letting her hat fall with it. She stands, hands flitting over the buttons of her flannel to free them. A fresh flush paints his cheeks when she goes for the tuck of her tank top at her waist, freeing the fabric from the beltline. He catches sight of a sliver of skin.   
  
MacCready swallows, averting his gaze, until the very same tank top, balled up, smacks against his chest. Slowly, he turns, and the breath he’d been holding tumbles out of him.

Her arms are crossed firmly across her chest. There’s straps on her shoulders.  _ Some  _ things are still covered. 

But some things aren’t. The rippled score marks raked across her stomach, for one, and the bubbled stinger scar on her shoulder. A dozen others dwell between them, crosshatching over half her body. 

The pit of dread in his gut sinks deeper. Only one thing makes marks like the ones that must’ve slashed her open. Someone saved her life. A deathclaw nearly ended it. 

“It sure didn’t feel like one piece,” she seethes. “But, go on, I guess, since you know so much better.”

She’s telling the truth. Shit. _ Shit.  _

He opens his mouth again, fumbling for an apology, when something else catches his eye.

He’d passed it off as freckles. A secondary glance shows him two, circular burns, spaced evenly apart. A colon mark, singed against her skin. Older, faded. It stands out starkly amongst the wasteland wear. 

“What is that from?” He mumbles, mesmerized.

“Aliens,” she deadpans, yanking back her tank top from his lap. “Obviously.”

Mac laughs nervously. “You really wonder why I second guess everything you say?”

“I don’t owe you anything, MacCready. Least of all my life story.” Natasha snaps. “We’re paid up.”

Natasha moves to silence the bleating of the PipBoy. As she turns the dial, the metronome cuts away. In its place, a voice seeps through the static.

_ “Automated message, repeating. This is Scribe Haylen of Reconnaissance Squad Gladius, to any unit within transmission range. Authorization arcs, ferrum, nine, five.” _

She turns her back to him, listening intently. With a stroke of panic, MacCready feels her slipping away, too. 

He sees it now: the other shoe. Turns out it was on his own foot, shoved so far down his own throat, he was choking on it the whole time. 

_ “Our unit has sustained casualties, and we’re running low on supplies. We’re requesting support, or evac, from our position at Cambridge Police Station.” _

Shit, it wasn’t just caps. He’d left Goodneighbor with her on a half-baked promise. A promise that panned out to be true, sure. But that wasn’t  _ why _ he did it. With the walls closing in on him, and little place else to turn, he needed someone.

Someone to watch his back. Someone who lights their problems on fire. Or finds the caps to pay them to go away. Someone who can find the right words and the right voice and the right walk to stop the guns from even firing in the first place. 

Someone as hopeless as he is, but still too stubborn to take ‘no’ for an answer.

Someone like the woman who’s walking away from him right now.

“Boss! Hey! Natasha -- wait!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All while writing this, I couldn't get the image of two bickering mudcrabs out of my head. Or, those crabs (lobsters?) from Finding Nemo circling around each other saying "Heeey!" "Heeey!"
> 
> Another image: Sims with plusses and minuses appearing overhead at various points through the chapter.
> 
> Also...the BoS are here?!
> 
> Part of the struggle with this chapter involved a pretty sweeping restructure from the rough draft. Now that I've puzzled through where some things go in this new version, I think the way has been majorly cleared for the first full arc, which is exciting! But, to help myself, and the story, I'm committing to editing one chapter ahead before posting from here on out. That may result in a little longer wait for the next chapter, but I think once I'm in a rhythm that way, it's actually going to majorly improve wait time overall. So, a little bit of an investment for future pay off. 
> 
> If you read and enjoyed, feel free to feed the writer your thoughts. You can also find me on Tumblr @adventuresofmeghatron. I so appreciate you all for taking the time to read <3


	5. Imprints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready tries to say something nice. Natasha encounters the Brotherhood of Steel, and an unexpected resemblance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the first time we have a POV switch within the chapter. I'll only do this up to one time within a chapter, and not every time. If you find the transition to be confusing in any way, please let me know in the comments so I can tweak future shifts like this!
> 
> Natasha makes reference to some political views and her work as an attorney. It's not my intent to make this fic a direct mirror to real-world, real-life events or issues. But, I've no qualms over people finding parallels between the things she talks about in a pre-war state that was becoming rapidly fascist and real-life things. The reference here is pretty brief, but I might have more specific warnings around these topics in the future out of respect to anyone these topics may strike a chord with.
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: Specific reference is made to children of immigrants being caged when their parents are detained. The reference is one line only, but there's some discussion of deportations that follows. If you do not wish to read any of this, stop reading after Mac says "What kind of trouble was it?" and start again about 20 or so lines down (per Google Docs) to the paragraph that starts with "Something chokes off MacCready's inhale". If you just want to skip the specific reference to cages, you can start reading again about 11 (per Google Docs) lines later when Nat says "I practiced immigration law".
> 
> Other than this, expect some canon-typical violence.

_ “Automated message, repeating. This is Scribe Haylen of Reconnaissance Squad Gladius, to any unit within transmission range. Authorization arcs, ferrum, nine, five.” _

Natasha takes the steps in double, dropping from the heat of the sun-baked roof to the cool shadows in between the piles of rubble and rust. The fire escape groans behind her. MacCready follows fast on her heels.

“Where are you going?” he calls. 

_ “Our unit has sustained casualties, and we’re running low on supplies. We’re requesting support, or evac, from our position at Cambridge Police Station.” _

“Where she said,” Natasha mutters, face fixed and stony. 

“Why?”

“Because now I want to shoot something and the bottles just aren’t doing it. Unless,” her lip curls, “ _ you’re _ volunteering?”

MacCready swallows. Natasha watches it move slowly down his throat. Must be a rough choke, that much pride. 

Natasha is sick of eating words and feelings for the moment. Something stings in her eyes, blurry and biting. She swipes it away with the back of her hand. It sparks a violent feeling in her chest that wrings her insides like a wet rag. Fitfully, her fingertips dance on the holster of her pistol.

“What about our caps?”

She scoffs, and the sound bounces back from the brick like a firecracker. MacCready winces. 

“You can go run along and count them, if you want,” she snaps.

Natasha plucks her way down the slopes of broken cement. Bent metal poles curl from the heap like claws. The throat of the alley widens to an intersection littered with the husks of old automobiles. They lay still and silent, among the wilted stoplights and carved up concrete. Headlights shattered, tires missing, or strewn across the other side of the street. Empty vessels en route to nowhere.

MacCready’s footsteps crunch to a halt beside her own. Natasha sighs and tilts her head to study the sideways slant of an old signpost. The faded metal holds just enough memory of its former self to tell her what she needs to know. She takes a sharp left.

_ “Automated message, repeating. This is Scribe Haylen of Reconnaissance Squad Gladius, to any unit within transmission range. Authorization arcs, ferrum, nine, five.” _

“Hey -- just wait up a sec! I’m trying to talk to you!” 

“So talk,” Nat mutters vacantly. “Since you’re so good at it.”

“Well you’re gonna have to listen for this to work.” MacCready grunts.

“Listening? Wow, another thing you’re great at! Don’t know what you need  _ me _ for.”

_ “Our unit has sustained casualties, and we’re running low on supplies. We’re requesting support, or evac, from our position at Cambridge Police Station.” _

Another fork in the road. MacCready steps in front of her, bringing her stride short. Those eyes of his, blue and pretty and pitying, skewer her in seconds. Sniper’s eyes, he likes to brag. It’s one thing he’s right about. 

Just one.

“Would you stop cutting me off and shoving words down my throat?” He huffs. “I’m trying to say something  _ nice _ all right?”

_ “Automated message, repeating--” _

“Come on,” MacCready shouts over the grating noise of the transmission. “You’ve gotta have that thing memorized by now!”

With the turn of a dial, Scribe Haylen’s plea dissolves into gritty silence. Natasha stares at her mercenary, who spears her right through in return. A sandpaper quiet spreads between them. Every twitch of his lips towards some might-be words is like a scrape to her side. She feels the rough edge of what he can’t seem to bring himself to say.

Something  _ nice _ .

Her patience wears through. “Anything else on your list of demands, or is this hostage situation over?”

His eyes narrow. “You forget what you dragged me into when we met? You’re not the hostage here.”

“Neither are you,” Natasha snaps. “I told you, we’re paid up. Don’t know why you’re so stuck on following me.”

“Don’t know why you think storming off on your own is gonna get you anywhere but dead!”

“I know where I’m going,” Natasha grits out. The tangled feeling in her gut twists tighter.

She balls her hands to fists at her sides and presses past him, trudging onward past the remnants of the watering hole that hosted “bar review” every other Thursday. She curves to avoid the spew of glass that decorates the pavement like an old world mosaic outside its missing door. The yawning gap leaves an ache in her chest.

It used to be, graveyards were designated places to house the dead. Now she sees them in every shattered window, every sign that’s lost its letters, every phantom billboard bleached white by the sun. Every inch of the wasteland is a cemetery, with far too many dead to tiptoe over the ground that’s tread upon.

Gravel crunches behind her. MacCready’s following in her shadow again. He’s really dragging his feet this time, by the sounds of it. Maybe he’s finally tired of chasing after her. All she has to do is wait him out. Haggard, huffing breaths rattle behind her. Shit, she wasn’t actually  _ running. _ Could be the smokes catching up with him. 

Natasha scowls, half-turning. “Mac are you--”

A blur collides with her sternum, sending the wind from her lungs and her body to the pavement. The back of Natasha’s head smacks the curb. Pain snaps in flashes through her skull. Mangled, filthy hands scrabble against the piecemeal leather protecting her abdomen. The ghoul locks its sightless gaze upon her. Flecks of spit spray from its lips in a garbled cry. It lunges. 

Blood sprays against her cheek like a warm rain. Natasha blinks rapidly, pulse thrilling through her veins. The ghoul slumps, motionless, on top of her. The gunshot still rings in her ears. The scope slides down and Natasha sees the eyes on the other side: blue and brittle with fear.

Wincing, Natasha slides from beneath the ghoul. A searing sting across her throat marks the place its nails scraped but didn’t sink. Besides a fresh paint of gut and grime down her front, and a bed of bruises sure to follow, she comes away clean. Natasha eyes the creature warily, but it stays motionless as she finds the will to swallow some pride.

She glances back at him. “MacCready, I --  _ Mac look out _ !”

Shadows smear in the alley behind him. Natasha’s warning comes with just enough time for MacCready to turn. The shot fires, but the bodies that slam against him shove the rifle from his steady hands. The gun spirals away and out of reach. Three ferals clamber over each other to claw against his leg. MacCready staggers, but sticks his footing. She catches the clench of his teeth as he goes for the pistol at his waist. Hands lash out to rip his arm away and apart. MacCready struggles in their grip. 

Natasha levels Kellogg’s revolver. MacCready shudders in the sights. The line of her aim bobs between him and the ghouls, tangled over each other. 

It’s no sniper. But she catches her breath and holds it, all the same. Her arms steady.

One shot. Just one, and Mac can squirm free. Or drop to the gnashing jaws that snap against his legs. Fear shoots through her. MacCready arches back with a shout. Blood rushes from the fresh gash in his leg.

One shot.  _ Just do it. Just one-- _

He cranes his neck, eyes finding hers. One word grits from his lips. “ _ Shoulder. _ ”

Natasha drops her shoulder back, and fires.

MacCready bursts free on the rush of her exhale. He whips the pistol from his waist and wastes the other two. Natasha’s mark writhes against the earth, clenching at the wound she left in its side. 

“All yours,” MacCready’s eyes flicker towards her. He gives a wide berth to the ghoul as he circles back her way. 

_ Shoulder _ . He doesn’t say it out loud this time. Natasha’s bullet cuts the throaty moan short. 

Her breath crashes back in her chest. Her eyes flicker to the slim slits between the buildings. No more movement. No more scrabbling cries or simmering snarls. 

“Frickin hate ferals,” MacCready mutters, scanning their surroundings for himself. “Nice shot.”

Natasha shifts behind the shelter of a blank face. Fatigue fills her bones. When she starts forward again, it’s like they’re flooded with lead. Every step aches, from her toes to the blossoming throb in the back of her brain. 

“You might know your way around,” MacCready continues earnestly, “but you still need someone to watch your back.”   
  
Natasha edges a glance his way with the barest tilt of her head. The anger flickers back to life, a stubborn fire that just won’t put out. It spits and festers.  _ You didn’t do so well on your own yourself just now, _ she wants to say. But the weariness pangs in her body, and she just doesn’t feel like loading the catapult. 

She lets go of a long sigh. “Just because I needed your help  _ doesn’t _ mean I’m helpless.”

MacCready licks his lips, studying her intently. “I need someone to watch my back, too.”

The words drop in her chest like the stones she nearly launched at him. She feels her lips twitch, and tames them back to stillness. 

“It  _ is _ surprising you survived the Glowing Sea,” he says softly. “I’d be surprised if  _ anyone  _ made it there and back.”

“I thought you were going to say something  _ nice _ ,” she mumbles testily.

“I am,” he insists. “What you’ve been through, it’s impressive. I know plenty of good shots that couldn't have survived what you have. Now I know one that could. And in case you can’t get that through your head, I’m talking about  _ you _ .”

“Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?”

“You set your shots up just right, it just comes down to how you take them. I can teach you how to take them. But that  _ instinct _ doesn’t have anything to do with me. I meant it when I said you know how to size up a mark. Wouldn't be wasting my time if I thought you were a lost cause.”

Natasha breaks his gaze, studying the grains of dirt between her boots.

So much potential. And only ashes to show for it.

“I mean,” MacCready continues with a shrug, “you had me figured out the day we met. Thought I knew how to pick someone apart, but you got me beat. I’m sorry I misjudged you.”

The words douse the bed of coals still glittering in her gut. But the blaze is dead and it’s only steam she’s breathing, now. Must be why her vision’s getting cloudy. Natasha rubs her eyes to clear them.

“Are we good, Boss?”

Natasha studies his outstretched hand, marred in dirt and blood and sweat. She doesn't take it. She takes the next right at the intersection, instead.   
  
If MacCready’s ruffled by being brushed away, he doesn’t show it. His sights settle across the street, keeping a keen watch for signs of life. 

They pass a shuttered up coffee shop. Cups and saucers blanket the streetside patio in shattered ceramic. Skeletal hands stretch across a table, clenching towards the bony arm of someone in a shredded sundress.

“You really do know your way around here,” he comments as she leads along the curve of the boulevard.

“It’s almost like I wasn’t lying that time,” Natasha says tiredly. MacCready waits, and she relents. “I went to law school nearby.”

MacCready wrinkles his nose. “Heard they used to lock kids up in school all day. Sounded like torture.”

“Law school was optional. And expensive. And...torture.”

“That where you learned how to talk people out of trouble?”

Natasha glimpses him in her periphery. She swallows past the dryness of surprise in the back of her throat. Something from their fireside chat seemed to stick, after all.

“It’s how I became an attorney, yeah.”

“What kind of trouble was it?” 

Natasha swallows again. It’s harder this time. 

She could chide him for prying, but it’s curiosity, not suspicion seeping in his tone.

Natasha looks around and sees nothing but graveyards. This one’s a coffee shop. That one’s a bar. MacCready looks around and sees glass and garbage and ground up bits of a puzzle he has pieces to, but not the full picture. So he plucks this bit from the rubble and asks her: what’s this?

What kind of trouble was it… 

Natasha thinks of the cars spilled out in the intersection behind them, empty seats carrying no one to nowhere. Sitting and stranded. Lost.

It was the kind of trouble that put parents on planes and trains to places that may as well be nowhere; the little ones they leave behind won’t see them again. They’re gone to the void.

The kind of trouble that leaves kids in foster homes if they're lucky, and cages if they’re not.

“I practiced immigration law,” Natasha says eventually. “Counsel on a lot of deportation cases.”

“They kick a lot folks out?”

“Yeah,” Nat murmurs past the lump in her throat.

MacCready’s face scrunches. “Why?”   
  
Nat stifles an empty laugh. The million dollar question rolls effortlessly from MacCready’s mouth. His eyes flicker to hers, curious and searching beneath a furrowed brow. 

How do you explain something you don’t understand?

Natasha shrugs, and offers the barest shake of her head. “Fear, I guess. You know, red menace, commie spies, enemies among us. All that crap.”

MacCready scowls at his boots. “That’s messed up.”

“Yeah.”

“How could people just be okay with that?”

_ We weren’t okay. _

“I don’t know,” Nat speaks tightly. “Never figured that part out.”

Something chokes off MacCready’s inhale. Natasha looks up sharply. She follows the line of his rifle to the end of the road, where a metal barricade bars the path forward. A pair of ghouls scrabble against the metal. They shift at the sound of approaching footsteps. MacCready fires twice. The ghouls join the slew of shrapnel littering the ground.

“Look alive,” MacCready murmurs, pivoting to take in their surroundings. 

Something sizzles in the air -- a low, quavering baritone that leaves an echo in its wake. Natasha feels the vibration thrum against her skin. She blinks and sees streaks of neon red light darting through the air past the barricade. More gargled cries grate on her ears. Her eyes dart to the darkened alleys. More ghouls.  _ Many _ more. But not here. 

Recognition clicks into place as she surveys the junction. “That’s the police station.”

“Come on,” MacCready tugs her wrist. “Let’s get a better view.”

Natasha follows his lead to a crumbled brick two-story. A splintered epitaph reads “bakery” over a busted out window. Vague memories of glazed bearclaws haunt the empty space Natasha ducks through. But no smells of rising dough or sugary sweetness greet her. Only a pungent, chemical sting against her eyes like chlorine in a public pool, only...burnt. Sour.  _ Ozone. _ It sears in her throat when she swallows.

Laser fire.

She climbs the heap of jagged rubble, trailing after the frayed edge of MacCready’s duster. Her footing fumbles. A firm hand grips wrist before she falls. MacCready hauls her onto the ledge.

For a few seconds, a hint of pine and nicotine swim past the chemical stench. She catches her breath as MacCready catches her eye. His grip eases from her arm.

“You all right?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs sheepishly. “Thanks.”

MacCready peels away from her, pressing his back to the brick and casting his eyes down towards the police station. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he groans.

Natasha blinks at him quizzically.

“It’s the frickin Brotherhood of Steel. Should’ve known by the stupid title. Scribe whatever-her-name-is.”

“Haylen,” Nat offers.

“Knew you had it memorized.” A spark of a smile curls on his lips. There’s something warm in the reproach. Natasha shrugs away from the strange, fleeting comfort that brings. Instead, she flanks the gap in the brick and peers from the other edge.

Something lurches in her chest.

A lone soldier stands in front of the police station like a bulwark against the wasteland. Ghouls pelt towards him in droves, smashing against the metal carapace of his power armor. He hurls them away with a sweep of his arms. They crumble in the haze of laser fire, and the soldier staggers back, only for a fresh wave to stream in past the barricade. With each gnarled body that slams against his side, Natasha watches him bend closer to the earth.

_ He’s not going to make it. _

“All right, rookie,” MacCready murmurs. “You’re up.”

Natasha raises a brow as he offers his rifle her way. Tentatively, she takes it.

“Hey,” MacCready snickers, “guy even sort of looks like a mudcrab. It’s basically the same thing, right?”

Natasha ignores his quip, getting a better look at her quarry through the scope of the sniper. “What’s the Brotherhood of Steel?”

MacCready leans back against the wall with his arms crossed lazily. “Military hot shots that run the show down in Capital Wasteland. Didn’t think I’d catch them this far north.”

“What’s their deal?” Natasha squints, gathering a headcount of the ferals. Too many, even with Lieutenant Mudcrab thinning them out.   
  
“Same as anybody running ‘round with guns bigger than their bits,” MacCready snorts. “Think they can bully everyone else into falling in line. If you don’t like it, they’ll  _ make _ you. And if they can’t make you, they’ll take you out.”

A laugh bubbles up in Natasha’s throat. MacCready blinks, a flash of surprise gleaming in his eyes. The smirk on his face widens. He tilts his head her way.

“It’s not very original,” she mutters dryly. “Same play on a different stage.”

“Whatever you say,” MacCready grunts. “You gonna shoot, or what?”

Shoot. Right.

Natasha sucks a breath in, and stares down the sights once more. She has her pick from the swarm. Not sitting targets, but predictable ones; the ghouls draw to the lone soldier like moths to a flame. One splits from the herd, climbing up above the others to wrench at the helmet sealing the soldier’s face from view. Natasha locks the ghoul in her crosshairs, and the inhale in her chest. Her finger flutters just past the trigger.

MacCready shifts beside her, but says nothing. She relaxes her shoulder down.

Natasha fires. For half a blink, she sees the bullet burrow through the ghoul’s skull before it drops. The metal helmet twists her way. Somewhere behind the bend of steel and glass, her soldier knows he’s been saved. Relief floods out on her exhale. 

“Not bad, killer,” MacCready drawls. “Now do it again.”   
  
Natasha reloads and refocuses. Her next shot clips an ankle. Blood sprays, but the bullet barely staggers the creature before it’s launching a fresh assault on her metal friend.    
  
MacCready leans forward. His breath sets a fresh prickle of annoyance running down her spine.“Sh--”

“Shut up,” Natasha clips past his sage advice. She feels his eyes narrow, and her shoulder slide back again. The next shot does the job. The one after grants the soldier enough room to find firmer footing. The rest of the clip gives him space to press forward.    
  
MacCready stays the silent observer while she reloads and readjusts. He says nothing when half her shots go wide, and the rest sink flesh to the earth. For a few minutes, Natasha forgets he’s even there. Forgets the pulse of anger and the pang of grief. Forgets the burn of pride and sting of spite. Forgets anything but the force of breath pulling like a tide in and out of her teeth. 

When the field is cleared, her metal man takes slow, thunderous steps towards the east end of the dusty yard. He twists the helmet free, revealing a flushed face and furrowed brow. He searches his surroundings, sweeping past their hiding place with deepening frown. Natasha slips from view. The cool brick is ice to the heat swimming on her skin. She wipes the sweat from her crown, closes her eyes, and counts down from ten.

But her heartbeat just won’t settle.

She sneaks a second look at the soldier patrolling his domain. His gaze has dropped down and away from them. By now, his frown is deep as a trench. He peels the cap from his head, revealing a crop of messy black hair. Natasha recoils behind cover, heart thumping.

“Not bad, killer,” MacCready sighs, shrugging from the wall. “Not that these schmucks are gonna pay you for the trouble.”

There’s a strange solace in the wry curve of MacCready’s sarcasm. Like a hand reaching out to stop her slipping from the ledge. Natasha takes the taunt in stride, falling into step beside him on the way down. By the time they’ve reached the ground floor, she’s caught her breath, and her confidence.

“You wanna bet?”

__________________________

“What’s your business here, civilians?”

_ Let me do the talking, _ she’d told MacCready. Natasha didn’t account for her tongue turning thick and weighty and _ useless _ in her throat. That same mercenary shoots her a sharp side-eye as she fumbles beneath the soldier’s penetrating stare. An itchy heat flushes on her cheeks.

They stand within the walls of the barricade encircling the police station. The lone soldier isn’t alone after all. Upon entering the yard, a pair in orange jumpsuits taking shelter by the steps slipped into view. One of them, a woman, tends to the splayed leg of her comrade. The injury doesn’t bar him from tracking their movements with the aim of his pistol. But one nod from his superior, and the weapon drops. Albeit, reluctantly.

“If you want to remain in our compound, I suggest you answer my question.”

_ Our _ compound. She sees their little stamp, now, peppered over every other segment of the barricade. It must’ve been what gave them away to MacCready’s keen eye, though it hardly took a sniper to spot the standard fluttering from the flagpole overhead.

Natasha sucks in a deep breath and forces her gaze to meet the soldier’s. The air puffs right back out of her lips. Something that should’ve been words, but slips out as a low whistle. The man tilts his head by the slightest degree. The knit of his brow deepens.

MacCready’s glances grow exasperated.  _ Say something _ , he’s shouting in silence.

“Nice weather we’re having,” she croaks. The soldier’s eyes narrow. MacCready stifles something that sounds like a gag.

“I’m not going to ask again,” the soldier demands. He takes one, massive step forward and the earth quivers. 

It’s not so stark as she’d thought, looking at him closer. His eyes are darker by far. His voice is deeper, lips more pouty. Younger, maybe, too, though it’s hard to tell with the wasteland wear settled on his skin. The resemblance wears thinner and thinner beneath her inspection. But the stone in her chest only drops deeper. It strikes a fresh spark of anger in her gut like flint against steel. 

_ What were you expecting? _

Natasha takes a sharp nip to the inside of her cheek, and tries again.

“We heard your transmission,” Natasha explains.

“Are you from a local settlement?”

“Sanctuary Hills,” Natasha answers quickly. The truth, but not all of it. No room for hesitation beneath a military stare. She hears MacCready shift behind her and feels him weighing the words sure as the soldier does. 

The stiffness on the soldier’s face eases. “I haven’t been to that area specifically, but I have heard of it. There’s not much technology for us to collect in that region.”   
  
He continues, still stern, but with tiredness seeping into his expression. “If I appear suspicious, it’s because our mission here has been difficult. Since the moment we’ve arrived in the Commonwealth, we’ve been constantly under fire. If you want to continue pitching in, we could use an extra gun on our side.”   
  
He turns towards her, despondent and imploring. Natasha bites down inside her cheek again. She can see the sleeplessness weighing in the strain of his neck, probably sagging down his shoulders. It softens the edge in his voice and sharpens the drag of her breath.

“We’re not the kind that go around making donations,” MacCready’s irritable commentary invades her reverie. “So unless you’re coughing up caps, you won’t be getting us _ or _ our guns.”

The soldier’s face hardens, chasing away the ghost of something fleeting and familiar. “We need allies, not opportunistic mercenaries. I’ve no inclination to pay for your services.”

Natasha curls and uncurls a fist at her side.“I’ll hear you out if you tell me your name and what you need.”

MacCready stiffens beside her.   
  
The soldier peels his glare from MacCready to Natasha. “Fair enough. I’m Paladin Danse, Brotherhood of Steel. Over there is Scribe Haylen, and Knight Rhys. We’re on recon duty, but I’m down a man and our supplies are running low. I’ve been trying to send a distress call to my superiors, but the signal’s too weak to reach them.”   


“Sir, if I may?” 

Natasha blinks to the blonde woman on the stairs. Even without the introduction, the scribe’s voice is familiar. Her patient, Knight Rhys, wears a fresh bandage over his leg, and a simmering sneer across his face. 

Danse nods his approval. “Proceed, Haylen.”

“I’ve modified the radio tower on the roof of the police station. But I’m afraid it just isn’t enough. What we need is something that will boost the signal.”   


Paladin Danse turned back to Natasha. “Our target is ArcJet Systems, it contains the technology we need. The deep-range transmitter. We infiltrate the facility, secure the transmitter, and bring it back here. So, what do you say? Are you willing to lend the Brotherhood of Steel a hand?”   
  
Barely are the words out of the Paladin’s mouth before others are invading her ears. MacCready leans a whisper to her shoulder, heated as his breath against her neck.

“I’m  _ not _ doing charity work, Boss.”

“Then don’t come,” Natasha grounds through gritted teeth.

MacCready recoils. “They’re not gonna  _ pay _ you!”

“ _ I’m  _ paying you,” Natasha snaps.

“Not to work for  _ them, _ ” MacCready huffs back.

“Fine,” she shrugs. “Then stay here. We’ll handle it without you.”

“What -- by yourself?”   
  
Natasha seethes beneath MacCready’s skepticism. “I’ll handle it like I handled six months without you, MacCready. Just like I handled Kellogg, and the Glowing Sea, and all the rest this shithole has thrown at me.”

MacCready slants back, stony-faced. “Try not to get yourself killed, I guess,” he mutters tersely.  
  
Paladin Danse clears his throat expectantly. “Are you two finished...deliberating?”  
  
MacCready’s glare still burns against her cheek. Natasha sighs. “For now.”

__________________________  


It helps that he’s got that awful helmet on. Now, the paladin doesn’t look or sound anything halfway haunting. Just like he’s sucked in a healthy dose of helium.

“Listen up,” the Paladin’s voice crackles in the power armor. “We do this clean and quiet. No heroics, and by the book. Understood?”

Natasha raises a brow, but nods her affirmation. “Understood, sir.” Not her preferred mantra, but a simple enough script to follow. 

“Remember, our primary target is the deep range transmitter. Stay focused and check your fire. I don’t want to be hit by stray bullets.”

Natasha feels the grimace flex on her face, too quick to hide it. At least he has the decency to bury the barb behind procedure and protocol. Unlike some surly mercenaries that spring to mind. 

The trek to ArcJet had been short, but not kind. Ghouls and molerats plagued their path. Just when the facility slipped into sight, a flurry of bloodbugs beset them, too. She eyes the rusted out cars strewn about the ruined lot, half expecting a deathclaw to spring from behind a steering wheel.

But, they’d survived, no worse for wear. So far. And Danse didn’t demand an about-face back to the compound, even when her bullet sheared across the side of his giant metal arm.

“Check you fire, Sokolova!” The Paladin shouted.

_ Shoulder, _ the voice in the back of her head said. It’s an ornery reproach that lurked in those shadowy thoughts. And a playful praise that echoed in her mind when she finally sank the shot she’d been gunning for. 

_ Not bad, killer. _

Natasha shoves MacCready from his steadfast hold in her mind as a model vertibird swoops into view over the crest of the hill. It’s locked in place mid-flight by column fitting it to the ground.

Arcjet’s signature colors stood the test of time: blaze orange and electric blue highlight the gunmetal gray exterior. It’s a small complex compared to the neighboring Corvega in Lexington. Well, what’s  _ left _ of Corvega. The stench of its sewer pipes burns a memory in Natasha’s mind the same way her molotov minions scorched that raider sanctum from the inside out. It was just her and Dogmeat back then. While the faithful shepherd could win awards for moral support, he wasn’t all that much help when it came to fashioning explosives.

Good times.

The company insignia etched on the side of the plant stokes other, distant recollections of features on the nightly news next to buzzwords like _ job creator  _ and _ economic stability _ and  _ growth  _ and  _ industry _ . 

When Natasha won the remote, those weren’t the words they used on  _ her _ channels.   
  
Danse leads, prying the metal doors apart with an inhuman ease by the grace of his gauntlets. Natasha slips into step behind him as they enter the facility. By now, she’s grown more accustomed to the tremor he leaves in the footsteps she follows.   
  
“It was corporations like this that put the last nail in the coffin for mankind,” he lectures quietly. “They exploited technology for their own gains, pocketing the cash and ignoring the damage they’d done.”   
  
Natasha smiles to herself. Paladin Danse might’ve liked _ her _ channels. 

Her fleeting smile dissolves quickly as they move further into the foyer. It might’ve been grand once. Flashy features of company achievements could’ve lined the walls, shining plaques and glimmering praises from others within the industry’s finest echo chamber. Now, it’s just another mess of metal and debris. Bits of ceiling have caved in, leaving streams of sunlight leaking from above. Metal shingles litter the floor. An old stairwell leans lazily on its side, having long forgotten where it was supposed to lead.

Standing like a sentinel amongst the wreckage, a Nuka Cola machine flickers with dim light. Natasha shakes her head. Of course it does. Now  _ there’s _ a company that made a deal with the devil.

For all his talk of quiet, Danse doesn’t seem the least bit disturbed by the crumple of stray paper beneath his thundering footsteps. Still, he hesitates at each corner, scanning every angle before proceeding further, signaling the all clear, and taking to the nearest cover once again. Natasha glances to gaps in the ceiling tiles, studying them for signs of movement. No ferals. Not yet. But after earlier, she’s wary of letting them get the drop on her again.   
  
_ Frickin hate ferals _ , a grumpy memory utters its input. Natasha shrugs away from MacCready’s influence, focusing instead on the object of the Paladin’s sudden scrutiny.

“Look at these wrecks,” Paladin Danse signals her to a halt. “It appears as though the facility’s automated security has already been dealt with.”

Natasha surveys the scene. It’s more a junkyard than a warzone. No blood smears across the floors, no bullets on the ground, no bodies, either. Just blasted bits of fallen protectrons.

Natasha stiffens. She blinks, but the image doesn’t change. Things she’s seen before. Not a junkyard. A signature. One that has her heart thumping in her throat.

“These robots were assaulted by Institute synths.”

Nat’s focus flickers to the Paladin. When she’s silent to his declaration, he fills her in further. She listens to the drip of venom in his voice with a chill seeping beneath her skin. 

“Synths are an abuse of technology created by the Institute. Abominations meant to ‘improve’ upon humanity. It’s unacceptable. They simply can’t be allowed to exist.”

“But...they _ do  _ exist.” Natasha’s brow pinches.

“They  _ shouldn’t _ .” Danse growls.

“I could say the sky shouldn’t be blue, but that’s still a reality we all have to cope with.”

“Enough,” Danse commands sharply. “We’re not here to debate morality.”

Natasha swallows past the thickness in her throat. Suddenly, he’s sounding familiar again.

“These are the newer, more advanced models,” Danse presses on. “They include additional armor, powerful weaponry, and more sophisticated strategic programming.”

The  _ advanced _ model? Natasha frowns, glancing back at the heap of shrapnel and metal plating. Gen 2s, undoubtedly. Advanced for their era. Before the third generation swept them into scrap piles. They still see their fair share of use, and their laser fire still stings something awful.

They’re deadly and efficient, sure. But advanced, strategic... _ new _ ?

“It’s likely they’ve come here for the same reason we have,” Danse decides. “Stay sharp. We’re sure to encounter more.”

Natasha follows his lead, sinking into uneasy silence. The weight of dread drags heavy in her chest. 

The Gen 2’s aren’t new to the Commonwealth. Danse and his Brotherhood are. If it was someone else, maybe it would be a comfort to watch them fumble and flounder with things they didn’t know they needed to know. Just like she did. 

But when a loaded gun fumbles, it’s prone to go off in the wrong direction. If Danse is any indication, he and his Brotherhood don’t lack for artillery. 

__________________________

_ Do something _ , he’d said.  _ Push a button, any button! _   
  
So, naturally, she hit the big, shiny red one. And, naturally, said button test fired a rocket that scorched everything beneath it to a crisp. Everything except for the Paladin, locked safely within his metal shell.

Which is how she came to be carried, bridal-style, in the armored arms of said Paladin across the sweltering steam still curling from the floor. Raw, blistering heat swells against her back. Still beats melted feet.

“Don’t worry,” Nat murmurs conspiratorially. “If anyone asks, this part never happened.”

“It would be irresponsible to omit information from a mission log.”

He doesn’t need to take the helmet off for Natasha to feel his cheeks burning scarlet. Then again, that might just be the sizzle still emanating from the smoldering ashes scattered over the room.

A half-dozen jabs about fried mudcrab ride on the tip of her tongue. But they’d only go unappreciated in the present company. If Mac were here, he’d be having a field day. 

Oh gosh. If Mac were here, the Paladin would have to carry him,  _ too _ . 

Natasha snorts into her sleeve. The helmet swivels towards her. There’s a disapproving grumble from within.

“We’ve still got a mission to finish. Focus up, Sokolova.”

__________________________

Natasha feels her heart sink on the cool stream of wind that greets them at the surface. Stars like freckles dot the heavens, glimmering amongst the last streaks of sunset. She never meant to be gone this long when she set out with the Paladin. The knots in her chest coil tighter. Tiredness tugs on her aching muscles.

“Well,” the Paladin pants, his voice cutting clear through evening air, “that could have gone smoother. But, mission accomplished.”

Silhouetted beneath the early moon, free from his helmet, Danse’s face is bathed in shadow. The light strikes his edges: the ruffle of his hair, the sharp line of his nose, the slope of his brow, and the edge of a tentative smile. Darkness swallows the rest. His voice is earnest and gentle without the warp of the helmet. 

Proud. Warm, even. Familiar. 

Nat shivers.   
  
“I admired your quick thinking when we faced obstacles,” he continues. “We worked well as a team. It’s a refreshing change to work with a civilian who can follow orders properly. That being said, I believe we have two important matters to discuss. First and foremost, I’d like to compensate you for your assistance during this operation.”   
  
_ Oh, eat shit, MacCready. _ It should be victory, swelling in her chest. Not this strange twist of restlessness. Natasha’s fingers thrum against the holster of her pistol.    
  
Those same fingers find themselves abruptly occupied as Danse passes his own laser rifle her way. It’s a bulky, unwieldy beast of a gun. Danse doesn’t miss the slight slip of her grip when he lets go. The barest chuckle rumbles beneath his breath.

“It’s my own personal modification on the standard Brotherhood laser rifle. May it serve you well in battle.”   
  
Natasha offers a faint smile and murmurs her thanks. The gun weighs heavy in her arms, like an overgrown toddler. Just one trigger away from a tantrum. She shifts the weapon in her grip. An etching on its side catches in the fading light.

“Righteous Authority?” She murmurs softly. The name sets bitter on her tongue, like she’s tasted ashes. Paladin Danse doesn’t debate morality. He delivers it. “Brotherhood don’t mess around, do they?”   
  
“No, we don’t,” the Paladin answers proudly. “Which brings me to the second matter I would like to discuss. I...wanted to make you a proposal.”

Natasha looks up sharply.  _ Are you getting down on one knee already? _ The quip rips through her mind, leaving a dull, throbbing pain in its wake. The bitter taste in her mouth lingers.   
  
“We had a lot thrown at us back there. Our op could have ended in disaster, but you kept a level head and found a solution. The Brotherhood can offer you training and resources to better your skills. You’ve room for improvement in that regard. But you’ve got a soldier’s instinct. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ve got what it takes.”

Natasha blinks rapidly against the sudden burn behind her eyes, diverting her gaze to the road. Danse’s speech draws out the imprint of what MacCready said to her that afternoon.

_ That instinct doesn’t have anything to do with me _ , the mercenary told her.  _ What you’ve been through, it’s impressive. _

_ I’m sorry I misjudged you. _

“The way I see it, you’ve got a choice. You could spend the rest of your life wandering from place to place, trading an extra hand for a meager reward. Or, you could join the Brotherhood of Steel, and make your mark on the world.”   
  
The Paladin speaks like a signpost marking a fork in the road. As if the world were so simple. As if it was so easy to cast it all in shades of light and shadow. 

As if no man in uniform has ever let her down.

Natasha knows the name of her instinct, and it isn’t ‘soldier’. It’s the same name as her mission: Find Shaun. Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.   
  
Only one person she’s met has a halfway idea of what that might be like. And it isn’t the half-familiar face in front of her.   
  
Natasha twists the ring on her finger.

__________________________

Something cold and wet splatters on MacCready’s sleeve. “You’ve gotta be frickin kidding me.”

Moody clouds gather overhead. A second drop splats against the brim of his hat. There goes his grand plans to wander aimlessly about the dusty yard. The rest of the rotting ghouls would have to go unkicked. For now. 

Rain flecks against the dirt, turning it damp and dark. Reluctantly, MacCready retreats to the shelter outside of Cambridge Police Station. He feels the hard stare against his shoulder, but doesn’t spare the brutish Mr. Tough Guy so much as a sideways glance. Mr, Tough Guy isn’t so tough when his leg’s bandaged up and he can’t even walk on his own. Delicately, Scribe Haylen guides her comrade upright with her hands around his hips. 

MacCready does steal a glimpse once Rhys’ hard eyes slip off of him. Haylen’s careful with her motions. No, not just careful. MacCready catches the small, soothing circles her fingertips trace against Rhys’ back. It’s fleeting, but telling.   
  
MacCready sniffs. Good for them. He rifles through his pockets for his lighter and smoke, feet shifting restlessly. They kept busy before the rain, prodding at the grounded ghouls. Just in case. Now, he fidgets aimlessly. 

It felt good to kick something. God, does he want to kick something. Or at least a frickin cigarette. 

Finally, he finds one. He purses it between his lips, thumb flicking the wheel of the lighter. It sputters and sparks, once, twice. Nothing. MacCready flicks it again and again, until the pad of his thumb starts to rub raw against the metal. Dead as a doornail. Grunting glumly, he chucks it. It glints and disappears into the pouring rain.

The cigarette hangs unlit from his lips. MacCready crosses his arms, foot rapping in a rapid rhythm against the steps.    
  
Yellow light spills across the concrete. Scribe Haylen leans from the open door. “You don’t have to stand out here and be miserable, you know.”

MacCready sighs defeatedly. The misery is compulsory. But it might as well be warm and dry.

__________________________

“What is  _ he _ doing in here?”

Rhys has other thoughts on where MacCready is welcome. The mercenary offers a smug smirk in return to Rhys’ seething glare. 

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” MacCready advises.    
  
“Haylen,” the knight implores, “there’s classified materials in here. We shouldn’t--”

“I’m not gonna make him stand out in the rain the whole time they’re at ArcJet,” Haylen interjects tiredly. “He saved our lives, Rhys.” 

“Probably his girlfriend did,” Rhys scoffs. “I didn’t see him jumping to help out Danse. Just in it for the money.”   
  
“Man’s gotta eat. We can’t all survive on pure bullsh-- crap!”   
  
The tiny, self-satisfied curl of Rhys’ lips gets MacCready’s fists clenching at his side. The mangled quip only stokes the glittering contempt on the knight’s face.   
  
Haylen rolls her eyes, sighing pointedly. “Well, I guess I respect a woman who can get a job done regardless of the hot-headed men around her. Can we all play nice while I’m counting inventory, or do I have to separate you?”   
  
Rhys blinks away sheepishly. MacCready studies the space around him with a sudden fascination. The heat doesn’t leave his cheeks.

_ Hot-head _ , she calls him. She’d only spent five minutes with Natasha. Give it ten, and Haylen might be singing a different tune. 

There’s an ambient itch in his palms as he takes in the Brotherhood’s base of operations in the Commonwealth. Hardly impressive, compared to their sprawl down in the Capital. But the rigid order of things in itself is disconcerting. Rubble swept carefully into corners. Ammo stocked in uniform stacks along metal shelves behind a long counter. MacCready peers around a corner, and finds sleeping bags laying perfectly parallel. 

Anyone else might not think much of these tiny maneuvers. The Brotherhood bent Capital Wasteland to its will. Taking over a police station is hardly a sign of an iron grip, but here they are, forcing it in line. It starts with a pinch, and before you know it, it turns to a choke. 

Recon Squad Gladius is just a pinch. A puny one, at that. It’s what follows behind that fluttering banner outside that sets MacCready on edge. It takes a conscious thought to force his jaw to unclench.

Something on the counter catches his eye: a familiar pack, left behind. Natasha’s. He weighs the odds she left her lighter. Paladin Danse doesn’t seem the type to take kindly to a smoke break. A cursory glance tells him Rhys is laid back, awake, but eyes shut and drifting. Haylen rifles through ammo in the corner, counting beneath her breath.   
  
Hey, if it’s so special, Natasha shouldn’t have ditched the pack. Or him. 

A fresh heat sparks against his skin at the reminder. Point, shoot, and get paid. That was the deal he struck with Natasha. Or maybe by the time she gets back, it’ll be Initiate Sokolova. Next time he sees her, she’ll be dressed in orange. Slap on a Brotherhood sigil and join their little cult. 

Who knew she had such a weakness for blockheads in power armor. MacCready had watched her weave words around brick walls and build bridges with them. But one look at Danse and she was a sputtering mess.  _ Nice weather we’re having _ . Jesus.    


And what kind of name is  _ Danse _ , anyway? Guy’s stiff as a wrench, and has about as much personality as a box of hammers. Real army boy. Or a real dreamboat, if Natasha’s any indicator.

MacCready makes quick work of the buckles, but takes pause when he flips open the flap and peers inside. He shakes his head, pawing past the hoard of instant coffee packets to pry through the contents below. A shine catches his attention. Something drops in his chest when he pulls it into the light.   
  
Three shiny initials glint back at him from the handle of the pocket knife: N. J. R. It’s folded shut, hidden in the polished wood. MacCready puzzles over the object in his palm. All the while, the knot in his stomach twists deeper.    
  
MacCready knows three things about Nate Russell: he was Natasha’s husband, a military man, and he died in Vault 111. 

Who knows if the Brotherhood actually look anything like the old military they seek to imitate. Except for someone who lived before the war. Someone who saw them firsthand.

For the first time, MacCready wonders what Nate Russell looked like.

He buries the blade back in its place. Natasha would make a terrible Brotherhood soldier, he smiles to himself. If they could see the state of her pack, they’d throw it out in a second. It’s pure chaos in there.   
  
It takes a few minutes of searching, but MacCready’s grip eventually curls around the lighter. He fumbles the cigarette back to his lips and lights it feverishly. MacCready puffs deeply, taking a moment to taste the edge of his nerves dissolving.

He lets his footsteps and his attention drift along with the smoke plumes. Something hangs on the neighboring wall: a familiar image pulled flat between thumbtacks. It’s the Commonwealth, sprawled out on grid paper. Angry red X’s dot the landscape. Mass Bay Medical Center. Mass Fusion. Postal Square. Hub City Auto.

Quincy.

MacCready plucks the cigarette from his lips. “Gunners giving you trouble?”

“Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.” Haylen sweeps her stack aside, peering up at him with a weary expression. “You don’t know the half of it,” she groans.

MacCready frowns back at the map. From a quick glance,  _ they _ don’t know the half of it.

“This is the fourth recon base we tried to establish,” she tells him. “They ran us out of all the others. From what we can tell, they own half of this place. We’ve managed to get out of their hair, and keep them out ours. For now.”

He doesn’t miss the uneasy edge beneath her words. 

And Haylen doesn’t miss MacCready picking up the red marker from the desk, and crossing a large X over Mass Pike Interchange. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're head-scratching about the BoS being a bit in the dark here, let me turn a light on for you:  
> This is a canon-divergent timeline for the BoS. Usually, the Prydwyn arrives right after you kill Kellogg. Nat took care that asshat some time ago. Instead of how things unfold in-game, our Recon Squad are only just finding their footing as Nat tries to hone her skills in this interim between the Glowing Sea and the Courser. On top of that, it seems the Gunners have given the BoS considerable trouble, and also, they're (for now) clueless about the Gen 3s.
> 
> I appreciate the support and encouragement as these early chapters set the stage for the body of the story. The pace is going to pick up soon and suddenly. I'm so excited to share where things are heading!
> 
> I finished off Chapter 6 this morning. Once I have a fresh draft of Chapter 7, you'll see it posted.
> 
> Much love to all of you. I hope you have a safe and happy holiday season. And, as always, feel free to connect with me on Tumblr @adventuresofmeghatron or feed the author kudos and comments.


	6. Closing In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready and Natasha find they can only outrun the past for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to canon-typical violence, some content warnings to be aware of for this chapter:
> 
> -The introduction scene features a dream sequence of a hostage situation that some may find disturbing. There's an element of the perpetrator toying with the victims. It's not particularly gory or long, but if you'd rather skip it, start reading after the first scene break where you see "The gun is the first thing he feels". I'll summarize this bit in the end notes for anyone who wants to skip.
> 
> -Natasha makes a sarcastic comment/joke about turning up dead in the morning due to her own disregard for her safety. Not a good joke, Nat. As you might have noticed, our girl is not really taking care of her mental health. I wanted to include a warning about this because I know it's a sensitive topic for many. And I want to make it clear: it's not funny. I don't think it is. It is reflective of where she is at with herself and her trauma. It's one line, but if you do want to skip, just jump down a line after Mac asks "Even when you're hammered?"
> 
> -The final scene features a panic attack from the view of a bystander, and not the person experiencing it. I think there might be a more specific term for this type of experience, but I'm not well-versed in what that exactly might be. If you want to skip this part, I will summarize it without the visceral details in the end notes. Just stop reading after Mac mentions the courser.

It’s the same gravel lot shadowed by the same highway overpass. The same stagnant heat swelters in the air and boils against MacCready’s skin. The same sick nausea burns in his chest. The same voice snakes in his ears.

Skinner speaks like silk, soft and soothing. He doesn’t bark like Winlock or Barnes.

“Sweetheart, I won’t ask you again.” 

That face is the same, too. Marred over at the mouth, rippled with burns and missing half a lower lip. Skinner circles his prey, while the Gunners form a ring around him. Waiting. Watching. Obedient mutts, all of them.

MacCready finds his feet rooted among the pairs of matching army greens, frozen in unbreakable stillness except for the chase of his pulse pounding through his ribcage.

“Please,” the woman begs, just like she did that day. MacCready’s heartbeat stutters. She turns. The face is all wrong.   
  
It’s Natasha shivering there, dressed in the tattered overalls with blood seeping down the denim. Natasha with tears streaming down her face and a pipe pistol in her hands. MacCready blinks, panic rising as he follows the aim of her gun to the two figures bound and kneeling in the dirt.

“You don’t want me choosing for you,” Skinner drawls.

Natasha’s lips tremble as she forces herself to face the family she doesn’t belong to. The family she’s been tasked to save or slaughter. Her husband and her son. Kill one to keep the other.

But it’s not the green-eyed, weathered farmer MacCready remembers, or their blonde-haired son sobbing and terrified. Paladin Danse stares back at Natasha, his face a stage for someone else’s agony. And next to him--

MacCready’s legs buckle. Duncan’s cry pitches higher, little fingers reaching, grasping, empty in the air.  _ No. _

“Come on man, we really gotta do this?” Someone pushes past MacCready’s shoulder. The motion buffets him briefly, until he finds his feet fastened to the earth once more. 

He remembers how this next part will go.

It doesn’t have to end that way. MacCready grits his teeth, forcing every inch of energy into pushing his legs forward. They stay stony and motionless despite the sweat trickling through his brow. 

Skinner fixes the black sheep with a steely stare, and says nothing. MacCready doesn’t remember the man’s name. The face is an empty smear. 

Beneath the pressure of silence, the crack of uncertainty sets in. “I-I mean, they surrendered. They know the land. We could use them!”

A mangled smirk stretches over Skinner’s face. “And  _ I _ could use a little entertainment, and a little more respect.”

Skinner doesn’t bark. He’s all bite. He levels his rifle to the grunt’s forehead.

“What are you--”

MacCready jolts with the fire of the gun. Blood dapples the dirt. The toe of his boot tastes the end of a nameless life. Natasha shudders, burying a cry in the palm of her hand. 

MacCready’s throat clenches tightly. It could’ve ended with his eyes to the earth and blood leaking out of his skull. Someone else took the bullet. And the next morning, he took his things and took off.

Skinner turns the gun on Natasha. “I’m getting bored, sweetheart.”   
  
MacCready squeezes his eyes shut. Not tight enough to blot out the voices.

Natasha raises the gun, sobbing. “I love you. I’m so sorry.”

The gun fires. Natasha screams. MacCready flinches as the sound slashes through the darkness behind his eyes.   
  
“What are you doing? You said you’d let us go! Let him go!  _ Let my baby go! _ ”

Skinner doesn’t. The gun fires again. And again. 

__________________________

The gun is the first thing he feels. 

MacCready’s hands coil tight around the rifle. The nightmare hooks claws in his chest, shredding the breath he chases after. Even when he catches a scrap of air, a keen edge cuts on every exhale. 

He rips his eyes open, and hers is the first face he sees. 

Awash in the fluorescent glow of her PipBoy, Natasha leans against the wall diagonal to him. Something flickers between her fingers. MacCready’s eyelids flutter, clearing the dregs of sleep as he traces that glint of motion. Something, anything to blot out the afterimages lurking between blinks. It’s her pocket knife; he finds the familiar letters.

The blade grows suddenly still. Brown eyes bathed in green find him staring. Natasha pauses. MacCready averts his gaze abruptly, but keeps the rifle gripped close.

By the dimness of lantern light leaking in from the other room, he traces the metal shelving, the salvage stacked in neat little rows, and the blaze orange sleeping bags rolled neatly on the floor beside his own. Cambridge Police Station. The Brotherhood’s new base of operations. Voices filter in from the other side of the wall: Haylen and Rhys’ playful banter, and the reproachful rumble of Lieutenant Mudcrab himself. 

“Hey,” Natasha murmurs gently. 

“Hey,” MacCready sighs.

MacCready manages a deep breath, the first he’s conjured since waking. With it, he tries to summon the script he had laid out a half-dozen times earlier. How she needs to start listening to him. How he isn’t hanging around just to wait for her to start taking him, or their situation, seriously. How he needs someone to watch his back and not go trouncing off because some meathead gave her puppy dog eyes.

How, maybe he gets it. Seeing memories in other people’s faces. Yearning for things that aren’t there. That pissed off, broken, banged up feeling that leaves you bruised and so,  _ so  _ fucking tired.    


MacCready rubs a hand down the length of his face, as if to wipe away the lines that furrow in his forehead. They linger, stubborn and stuck. Sleepless circles hang heavy beneath his eyes. Natasha peers back at him, pensieve.    
  
Yeah, maybe he gets it. Maybe he’ll let it go. This time. 

“Listen,” she says quietly. “When we drop by the Cabots in the morning, I want you to take my share for this last job.”

MacCready feels his practiced words dissipate. He blinks back at her, stunned.

“You were clear from the start what you’re here for. I guess I lost sight of my reasons for a second there,” Natasha studies the knife in her hands. “It won’t happen again.”

_ Yes it will, _ MacCready thinks to himself, laying down the rifle to fidget with his hat in his hands.

Natasha will see Nate again when she least expects it. Hear a song and think of how he used to laugh. Look into the eyes of her son, and see him staring back at her. Run into someone else with another sad story that pulls at her soul like an aching muscle. Sink into the past to dull the aching present. 

Sink, but never surrender. She’s not the type to stay down for long. He learned that out on the rooftop that she stormed from. She learned it from a dozen scars lashed over her skin. 

MacCready’s eyes flicker back to hers. He offers her the barest nod. “Are we good, Boss?”

“Yeah,” she smiles hesitantly. “We’re good.”   


MacCready slinks back against the chill of the wall. The cold soothes the slick of sweat still drying on his skin. By the sounds of it, the rain has worn itself out. But the night hasn’t thinned just yet. It’ll be hours until they can put this place behind them. MacCready dares to let himself doze.

Something clangs against the concrete. MacCready wrenches his eyes open and seizes his rifle, chest heaving.   
  
“Sorry,” Nat says sheepishly. She collects her fallen PipBoy from the ground beside her.

“It’s fine,” MacCready grunts through gritted teeth. 

Weird. She hardly ever takes the PipBoy off. Curiously, he watches her cradle the thing in both hands, thumbs flicking across the screen. She senses him staring, and offers it to him with a secretive smile.

“You wanna play Zeta Invaders?”   
  
MacCready feels a warmth spread across his face alongside the neon light of the screen. “You’re damn right I do.”   
  


__________________________

When they emerge into the blooming daylight, Paladin Danse is patrolling outside of the police station. He nods curtly, shifting to let them pass. His eyes linger, wistfully, on Natasha.   
  
They’re just a couple yards from the edge of the barricade now. MacCready smirks and bends a whisper to Natasha’s ear. “Five caps says he doesn’t let you go so easy.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and sniffs a laugh. “I’m not taking that bet.”

MacCready quirks a brow her way, an unspoken question itching at the tip of his tongue. She’d shared no details of their mission to ArcJet. He hadn’t asked, and she didn’t volunteer. Wasn’t the right place for it.

But if they could just get out from under  _ someone’s _ hulking shadow…

“Sokolova,” Danse’s voice pulls their attention back behind them. “Remember, if you change your mind…”

MacCready’s smirk pulls wider on his cheeks.   
  
“I’m not a soldier, Danse,” she says with a shake of her head.

“Well,” the paladin clears his throat, “safe travels to you.”

The compound passes from view minutes later. MacCready peers over his shoulder and watches the orange standard fade behind brick walls. Something rustles up ahead. He whips his gaze to the street before them, shoulders stiffening. 

Huh. MacCready eases his stance. Just a tin can, rolling aimlessly in the breeze. It rattles his nerves enough to stymie his interest in the paladin’s misery. For a few blocks, at least.

The Charles laps hungrily at its banks as they round a familiar corner. MacCready peels his eyes from the path ahead to glance at Natasha.

“Alright,” Natasha sighs. “Get it out of your system.”

“So is Danse business in the front, party in the back, or is that guy as lame as he looks?”

Natasha snorts. “You had that  _ ready _ .”

MacCready shrugs. “Invited  _ you _ to join the party, by the sounds of it. Must’ve done something to rain on his own parade if you’re still here, not wearing orange.”

Nat peers at him skeptically. “I would look awful in orange.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely not your color.”

“Oh?” Her smile turns teasing. “What  _ is _ my color?”

MacCready studies her intently. She dresses dark, mostly. Blacks and browns and grays. Except that something blue borrowed from the Cabots that she slipped on for slipping into Goodneighbor. Still dark, but with just a glimpse of color when it moves. Kind of like how her hair tints red beneath the sun, and fades brown when the light goes. He sees that now, while she’s tugging her fingers through the tangles.

“Hm. Maybe blue.”

She holds her breath. It’s just for a second, and she doesn’t drop the smile. But something caught, tight in her chest. Something he said. One of those words was the wrong one. Probably  _ blue _ . He fills in others to bury it.

“Nah,” he muses, “leopard-print. With black boots. Can’t go wrong with going bold. ”

Natasha grimaces. “I now have an image of Paladin Danse in a leopard-print jumpsuit that says you  _ definitely _ can.”

MacCready recoils in disgust. “You  _ had _ to go there.”

“On the other hand,” Nat contemplates. “If  _ that’s  _ what they were wearing, I would have asked a hundred more questions.”

MacCready licks his lips, stealing another glance her way. “They asked  _ you, _ and you said no. Why?”

“What, and miss out on your pleasant company?”

MacCready’s eyes narrow, but he keeps his reproach locked behind his teeth.

Natasha nudges his shoulder. “Sure, we’ve had our ups and downs, but there hasn’t been a dull moment yet.”   
  
MacCready blinks back at her, the upward turn finding its way back to his lips. It’s a tease. And an understatement. But a taste of honesty, at least.

“I know sometimes I  _ improvise _ , but they’re a little oblivious, aren’t they? Blundering around like that.”

“Bigger guns usually are,” he murmurs. “Gonna hit something in the spray. Don’t care to be careful. No finesse.”

“Danse thinks Gen 2s are the most recent model of synth.”

MacCready coughs back a laugh. “You didn’t tell him? Guy’s gonna blow a gasket when he finds out! Come to think of it, that might be fun to watch.”

“I could’ve told him,” Nat says flatly. “They hate synths. They’d fight the Institute with me.”

“But?”

“But I don’t care about fighting the Institute, MacCready. I just want to find my son.”

MacCready’s smile fades to a familiar ache seeping in his chest. A leak of grief that’s slowly, surely, rotting him through.

“Whatever it takes,” the tired edge in Natasha’s voice tempers with determination. “And like you said, the bigger guns tend to spray. I’m not letting Shaun get caught in the crossfire.”

MacCready clears the thickness in his throat with a cough. No more wallowing. No fricken time for it. There’s caps in his pocket, a gun in his hand, and another watching his back. He doesn’t know where to find Duncan’s cure, not yet. But he will. 

Whatever it takes.

“You’re right about them blundering around,” he says. “Haylen told me this wasn’t the first base they’d tried to set up.”

“Saw that map of theirs on the wall.” Natasha ponders. “Lot of red.”

“Gunner outposts, mostly.”

“All of them?”

“Barely half. I added a few.”

“Hm?” She tilts her head curiously.

“Enemy of my enemy and all that. No sweat off my back if they blow each other up. Speaking of oblivious,” MacCready continues with a scowl. Danse didn’t seem bothered that you walked away with his clunker.”

Natasha scoffs. “His  _ what _ ?”

“That mess of a gun that’s bending your spine as we speak.” MacCready inspects it over the wrinkle of his nose. Not bad, for a laser weapon. Still bulky and obnoxious as hell.

“Well,” Nat smiles smugly, “ it turns out I won that little bet we made. He  _ did _ compensate me after all.”

“It’s way too big for you,” MacCready comments critically, shaking his head. 

Her smirk turns coy. “It’s not all about size, it’s how you  _ use _ it.”

“Oh,” he sniffs, “in that case, don’t get your hopes up. Like I said, Brotherhood aren’t big on  _ finesse _ .”

Natasha shrugs off his skepticism. “Good thing I’ve got some of my own.”

__________________________

The dreams don’t ease in the nights that follow.

They swarm MacCready’s mind with red X’s on grid paper, circling in, tighter and tighter. The ink seeps and sinks together into blood pooling at his feet. He edges back. Caps crunch beneath the heel of his boots. He edges back again, and rotting hands pull his duster to shreds, tugging him to his knees.

MacCready’s palms smack against the slickness of the tunnel, barring his nose from crunching against the brick. He sucks in a breath that rattles through his bones and tastes the putrid stench permeating the air. Through the sparse light, he can just make out the glint of subway tracks in the nearby trench, careening from their rigid path into a mess of rubble and rot. This one was kinder. At least he didn’t have to  _ see _ her.

MacCready grips the edge of the bed frame until its underbelly of wire bites into the meat of his palms. He winces, and withdraws, sliding from the mattress and into his duster.

Natasha’s where she always is, beside the flickering flames with her knees drawn to her chest and a bottle close at hand. But it’s not the firelight that’s reflecting back in her eyes. The green of the PipBoy dances there, instead.

She doesn’t look up when he slumps down beside her, but she raises a reproachful brow when he robs a swig of her whiskey. As if he hasn’t done it every night since they got back.

Natasha made good on her promise, and now he’s four hundred caps richer. It’s back to running simple errands for the time being. Deliveries, mostly. Fuel and fodder for the small army Cabot’s got stationed over at Parsons Asylum. If it is chems he’s cooking, must be damn good ones. Ed Deegan usually meets them part of the way, and they’re home sweet home to the cramped comforts of Savoldi’s by nightfall. 

During the days where the work is sparse, they trade the PipBoy back and forth, and the fresh high score with it. During the nights where sleep is elusive, their ritual carries on by firelight. They trade few words, instead, trading a bottle of something that burns. 

In between turns, MacCready keeps an ear to the traders passing in and out of town, snatching pieces of conversation that pique his interest, and then quickly discarding them as they inevitably fail to hold it. 

Who gives a crap about this year’s tato harvest? Or the Minutemen flying their flag over at Oberland Station? Not like that blue banner ever did much. If it did, maybe there wouldn’t be an orange one over Cambridge Police Station. 

But then, there was a whisper on the breeze, nearly drowned in the scrape of garbage tousling down the road. MacCready crept forward around the corner, straining his ears to catch it.

“Fever. A bad one, two. Scorched her right through.”

“But she’s okay?”

“She’s okay. Cough rattled every bone in her body at its worst. Doctor couldn’t do shit.”

“When do they ever?”

“Every night I went to sleep, I thought: tonight. Tonight will be it. Then, one morning, sat up by herself in bed. Swear that smile could outshine the sun. Never seen anything like it.”

“She pulled through? All on her own?”

“All on her own. She’s a fighter, that child of mine.”

Something in MacCready withered when he slunk from his listening post. The caps clinked in his pocket. His footsteps carried him back to Savoldi’s, back to the violence of the coiled sheets where he already knew no rest waited for him. But he had to try. 

Duncan’s not getting better on his own. Doctors have been useless. But he has to  _ try. _

Whatever it takes.

Tonight, MacCready takes another swig of Natasha’s whiskey. 

He studies the flash of pixelated aliens and flying saucers glowing on the screen, and the neon reflection cast back on Natasha’s face. The searing light catches in the shadows beneath her eyes. Shadows he recognizes readily. They match his.

He wants to ask. 

Really, he’s wanted to ask for weeks. But this piecemeal peace between them wobbles sometimes when they talk. MacCready steals another sip of liquid courage. Natasha passes the PipBoy back to him with a satisfied smirk.

“Eat my ass, MacCready.”

“Not likely. You’re gonna be eating your own words before morning.”

She sniffs skeptically, drinking deep of her nightly draught. MacCready thumbs the PipBoy hesitantly, before he sets it back at her side.

“Do you ever actually sleep?”   


Natasha purses her lips. For a moment, he’s certain he’s misstepped again. But then, she wedges the bottle back into the dirt and looks at him earnestly. “Do you?”

“You’re never in that room.”

“It’s too small.”

“Sure,” MacCready rolls his eyes dismissively. It’s an answer she’s given before, and not one that makes any more sense now that he’s hearing it again. “Sorry the accommodations aren’t rich enough for your taste, but that doesn’t explain how you’re not dead on your feet or, you know,  _ dead _ from dozing off someplace weird.”

Silence slips between them. A log slumps in the fire, crumbling through the middle. Ash billows in its wake. MacCready’s head jerks up as Natasha rises.

“All right. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Tentatively, MacCready trails after her. She swipes the PipBoy back before they go, using it to light their way behind the brick building where the traders barter and banter during daylight hours. MacCready swipes a cursory glance to their surroundings. Nothing but dusty brick on their right, and corrugated metal to their left. He checks for prying eyes at either end of the narrow path, but finds none.

Natasha’s on the move by the time he looks back around.

“What are you…?”

“What does it look like?” Natasha whispers from above. “You coming, or what?”

MacCready watches her clench on an outcropping of brick, and pull herself higher. It’s a well-worn path she’s following up the stony backside to the tradehouse. She’s halfway to the shingled roof when she pauses, peering down behind her shoulder.

With a groan, MacCready takes to the brick himself. The ledges hold fast, though he tests each one before he shifts his grip. When he nears her resting place, she climbs soundlessly up and over the lip of the rooftop. Seconds later, she offers an arm to MacCready so he can join her.

“Just stick to this side,” Natasha advises, scooting backwards from the edge. “The rest  _ looks _ stable, but it’s not.”

_ How’d you figure that one out? _ MacCready almost asks, but he’s still panting for breath. By the time he catches it, his eyes are adrift across skies above, and the Commonwealth below.

The orange glow of late night fires and string lights emanating from the ground below them bleeds into the midnight blue overhead. At home in the heavens, starlight glimmers bright and simmering like drifting embers. And in between them, MacCready makes out the sharp lines of rooftops and chimney stacks surrounding the square. A highway crumbled apart at the middle, like a log burnt through, collapses into decay at the edge of his vision. Here and there, he catches the glint off the current in the river, bathed silver in the moonlight.

Natasha surveys it all beside him, but she’s somewhere far away. Farther than the water tower, shining pearly white across the river. Farther than the rolling hills that linger nearby, but out of sight at this hour. Farther than anything he can spot with a scope from their rooftop.

So he speaks softly. Not right to startle someone who’s feet dangle so close to an edge.

“You do this every night?”

She nods.

“Even when you’re hammered?”

“Yeah, well, if I ever don’t show up in the morning, you know where to find my body.”

MacCready swallows. Her ragged laugh leaves a pinch in his brow. It doesn’t sound like her. Doesn’t sound like the woman vowing ‘whatever it takes’. Sounds a lot like the one who said ‘it didn’t feel like one piece’. The one stitched together under all those scars.

“Why?” He asks. His exhale curls in the air. MacCready shivers.

“I already told you,” she murmurs quietly.

It’s too small. _ She means it, _ he thinks, peering out over the city blocks below. But he still can’t figure  _ what _ it’s supposed to mean.

“What about when it rains?”

Wordlessly, she shimmies to the border of brick where the roof angles up in a separate peak. It’s another familiar ritual, one that’s all her own. Natasha unfurls a tarp rolled up at the edge, and pulls it taut to stakes poking from between the shingles. The tent beneath it is shallow, but large enough to slip a sleeping bag. She has one of those, too; it comes unfurled from the roll of the tarp as she sets up her little campsite.

“Don’t you get, you know, cold?”

Natasha sighs, opening the bedroll and zipping herself inside. He opens his mouth again, but finds the words cut short as he watches her head disappear beneath the fabric. She burrows in deep, like a molerat snug in its den. From the depths, he can just make out her muffled murmur.

“Goodnight, MacCready.”

Something deflates in his chest on the long breath that he lets go. He watches her squirm and settle, until her breathing tapers down to a slow, steady rise and fall. The chill nips at his idle fingers. 

He doesn’t need to sit here. Doesn’t need to keep watch. She does this every night, all by herself. Just like she handled six months without him, and the Glowing Sea, Kellogg, all of it. Just like she said. 

Maybe it would start another fight if she knew. But it’s not like he’s finding sleep tonight, anyway. He doesn’t want to wake up to find a body at the base of the brick. 

MacCready stays just a little longer.

__________________________

“You should just sell it,” MacCready grouses, tugging his hat down to shield his eyes from the sun. 

“It was a gift, I can’t just sell it,” Natasha chides.

“It wasn’t a gift, it was compensation for your services!” MacCready corrects her. “Means you can do whatever the hell you want with it. Like  _ sell it _ .”

Natasha huffs a breath, but says nothing as Bunker Hill’s familiar monolith slips into sight down the road. They trudge down the familiar trail back from Cabot House, a hundred caps richer between the two of them. Cheap pay for what should’ve been a cheap job; nothing but molerats bothered them shifting crates from Point A to Point B for Edward’s elites to come and grab. 

Except Natasha decided to test spin Righteous Authority. The shoulder trick isn’t so slick for a gun she barely hold. The chewed edges of her jeans speak to the consequences of her fumble. But she was smart enough to chuck it in favor of her revolver when the going got hot. Neither of them are worse for wear beneath the fresh holes in their clothes.

MacCready rolls his eyes. “Fine, at least let me carry it for you. You look beat.”

She doesn’t say thank you, but he catches the small curl at the edge of her mouth. Natasha foists Righteous Authority over into his waiting grip. MacCready feels his arms dip beneath the weight. He tries to cover it with the shrug of his shoulder, but Natasha’s snicker knows better. MacCready flashes her a conspiratorial grin, picking up his pace until she’s strides behind.

Natasha jogs to catch up with him. “What, you got a hot date or something?”

MacCready widens his stride, pulling ahead again. “Yeah, with my favorite trader in the Hill. Need to dump this load of crap somewhere.” 

“Mac, don’t -- _ hey _ !”

MacCready’s sprinting now. Somewhere behind, he can hear her boots slapping the concrete and her laughter tangling with her breath, fainter as she falls behind. No way she catches up; MacCready’s just a couple dozen yards from the gate, now. He can see the smoke billowing over the wall, smell the kebabs cripsing on the cookfires, find the mortar lines between the white-washed bricks of the monument. 

He’s on a collision course with the lookout by the gate if they don’t move soon. MacCready opens his mouth to call out to the broad-shouldered figure with the hardened shell of combat armor strapped across his chest. The man faces the other way, with his back to MacCready. But as MacCready nears, he locks eyes with the painted white skull staring back at him.

Shit.  _ Shit. _

MacCready skids to a halt. He sucks his breath back in before it gives him away. The man shifts, listening as Natasha’s footsteps patter closer. She’s not stopping, doesn’t see him, doesn’t  _ know _ . MacCready slinks to the cover of the corner, pressing himself flat to the ramshackle barricade surrounding the settlement. 

Feverishly, he gestures to Natasha. His pulse thrums in his throat. She looks ahead, but not at him.

“Hey! Hands where I can see them!”

_ Shit _ .

Natasha’s jog dissolves into slow steps as she nears the gate. She obliges readily, with a voice that’s something southern and certainly not hers. “Hey there. No need to get so excited, handsome.”

“You shut the hell up unless I ask you to talk,” a gravelly voice barks back at her. “And don’t fucking move.”

Natasha freezes just within his view, with her shoulders set parallel to his. She’s close enough that he can reach out and touch her. Close enough that he can hear her carefully measuring each breath. Her hair drifts down, hiding her face at this angle. The Gunner lingers just out of sight, shadow pouring over Natasha.

A radio crackles. MacCready flinches. 

“You got somebody?”

_ Winlock _ . He’d know that snarl anywhere. Slavering and drooling and stupid to make up for what he lacked in teeth.

“Yeah,” the lookout answers. “A woman. Reddish hair, brown eyes like you said.”

The radio growls back. “Congratu-fucking-lations, moron. Could be any random woman off the street. Almost like it’s your first time seeing one. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is that she’s got tits!”   
  
“Well what the hell do you want me to do about it? He’s not with her!”   
  
“She speak like a Soviet?”

Natasha puffs an airy laugh. “A real life commie? My, wouldn’t that be somethin’ rich.”

“Nah, she’s southern. Got a PipBoy on her wrist, too.”

“S’not her,” the radio grates. “Bother me with bullshit again and see what happens.”

“If that’ll be all then…” Natasha shifts a tentative step backwards. 

“Not quite. You’re gonna give me that PipBoy first.”

Natasha stiffens. She tilts her head, pulling the hair back behind her ears. MacCready catches the glint in her eyes, the flex of her fist, the stern set of her jaw.

MacCready pulls the pistol from his hip.

She staggers backward again. The shadow lumbers after her. Broad shoulders come into view. 

“I won’t ask again,” he growls, leering towards Natasha.

“Don’t worry, pal,” MacCready hisses. “You won’t get to.”

**BANG.**

The gunshot casts crows into the air. For a few seconds, the shouts are lost beneath the cacophony. When the cawing thins, MacCready catches them between the scattered cries of the settlers inside.

Winlock’s bellow booms between the walls. “Move! Out of my way!”

MacCready seizes Natasha’s arm. “Run!

He bolts for the alley, Natasha racing alongside him. He can hear the scrape of her heel as she follows his sharp turn. He yanks her arm again at the next intersection to stop her from sliding into the open street. MacCready dares a glance behind them. The pointed monolith still looms.

“Where?” Natasha asks breathlessly.

“I-I don’t know.” Panic leaves his throat parched and sends answers scattering. 

Not Goodneighbor. Neither wastes the breath to say it. No use in running from a loaded gun straight into a pointed knife.

“Cambridge?” Natasha pants. “The Police Station?”

“You think those three bozos are gonna save us from a Gunner kill squad? It’s too far, anyway.”

The alley cuts left to a dead end. The only path that remains runs through the sun-splashed street to the bridge arching over the Charles. Unless they want to take their chances in one of the other boroughs on this side of the river. MacCready slows to a stop, eyes flitting between the graffiti stains on the brick to the water sloshing fitfully against the banks. Each time the waves crest up, they slap again the concrete corralling the river in place. 

MacCready casts his eyes back behind them. It seems the walls have crawled in closer. He swallows once, twice, past the choke in his throat, but can’t find the words or the space to maneuver.

“Cabot House.”

He glances sharply at Natasha. “If they knew where we were staying, they know who we’re working for.”

“They don’t know it was us,” Nat presses. “Guy even said it wasn’t me on the radio, and that you weren’t around. People fire guns all the time.”

MacCready leans heavily against the rough brick. It grates cold and gritty on his cheek, pushing past the numbing pulse of adrenaline that’s throbbing in his limbs. 

“We won’t stay there,” Nat concedes. “Just long enough to think of something better, all right?”

MacCready manages a nod. When he pushes from the wall, he feels it push back. They slink from the alley to the avenue, clinging close the shadowy fringes.

__________________________

There’s a bite to the breeze that sneaks through the door to Cabot House when Natasha presses it closed. MacCready sucks it in like the first taste of air he’s had all day. 

“You okay?” Natasha surveys him critically.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” he answers, even though his voice falters when he speaks. 

He doesn’t shake Natasha’s scrutiny. She sighs softly, fitting her hands in her pockets. “Well, uh, thanks for shooting that guy. Instead of feeding me to the wolves.”

MacCready’s brow scrunches. “Hey, you had my back out there, I got yours.”

The hint of a smile picks up the corner of her lips. “Yeah. Go team.”

They linger in the foyer, waiting to be noticed. Instead of the familiar Mister Handy, it’s the sparks of an argument that greet them.

Jack Cabot rages at the radio in the sitting room. “Hello?! Edward?! Come in, Edward! Agh! No signal at all, lost them!”   
  
Mrs. Cabot’s croak overshadows the empty static pouring from the speakers. “If these people are inside Parsons, if they  _ free _ him…”

“Don’t worry, Mother, I’ll handle it.” Jack leans against the table, staring bleaky at the gold-painted trim.

“Not out of the woods yet,” MacCready murmurs to Natasha, sauntering through the entryway.

Jack’s head jerks up at the sound of their approaching steps.

“Good, you’re here,” he murmurs. “I suspect you came to negotiate compensation. That will have to wait. There’s been an emergency.”

MacCready shifts uneasily. They already have their own fire to put out. Stick around much longer, and they’ll end up burned. MacCready chews at the inside of his cheek.

“That was Edward,” Jack fills them in. “He’s at Parsons, the old asylum. They’re under attack by raiders. It’s strange, the guards have held off raiders before without any trouble. I don’t know what’s gone wrong this time.”

Parsons. MacCready’s mind races over the details. It’s a far-flung corner of the Commonwealth, away from prying eyes. A suitable place for a weird old man in a lab coat to stuff whatever he doesn’t want creeping out into the open. 

A perfect place to hide things, and a perfect place to hide. MacCready fidgets with his hat on his head. If they can  _ get _ there.

“I wonder if these could be the same raiders that stole that shipment you recovered,” Jack ponders aloud. “And if some of them had used the undiluted serum, it could explain their unusual success against Edward’s men.”

“Jack, we didn’t come to talk pay,” Natasha interjects. “There’s been a raider attack on Bunker Hill.”

MacCready eyes Natasha. Their sprint left her cheeks flushed and her eyes tired. She leans into the lie with urgency tightening her tone.

Cabot soaks in the news with a sudden burst of alarm. “I -- there has? Tell me  _ everything _ you can about these raiders. If they’re the same--”

“They’re not,” Natasha holds up a hand to stop him. “They’re Gunners. They call themselves mercs, but it’s just lip service. They usually run further south from here. They’re not the same gang we broke up at the creamery.”

Jack mulls the information over while rubbing at the fresh crease in his forehead. “We need to get to Parsons immediately.”

“We can’t go past Bunker Hill.”

“But that’s the fastest route--”

“Jack,” Natasha lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Let me ask you something: what happens if you  _ don’t _ make it to Parsons?”

Cabot blanches. MacCready follows the slow swallow dropping in his throat. 

“I haven’t asked about your little serum and frankly, we don’t need to know,” Natasha continues. “We’ll back you up. But we’re  _ not _ going past Bunker Hill. Understood?”

If Cabot gleans new suspicions from her insistence, they’re swallowed up in the sheen of fear flickering on his face.

MacCready bites down too hard on his cheek. He winces, rubbing his hand along his jaw to ease the throb. Any other time, he’d agree with Natasha: they don’t need to know, and usually he wouldn’t care too. But something about seeing alien expert, mad scientist Jack Cabot quaking in his shoes leaves a fluttery, nervous feeling in MacCready’s chest. 

Hiding in Parsons means hanging out with all the crap that’s hidden there, too.

Jack nods, and Natasha slips her hand from his shoulder. “As long as you and your comrade understand that, when we get to Parsons, you need to do exactly what I tell you, nothing more, nothing less. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

__________________________

MacCready tastes bile when he pulls back from the scope of his sniper rifle. 

“Well?” Cabot tithers anxiously over his shoulder. “Do you see anyone?”

Not a damn soul. Just bodies and pretty little blood splatters. It’s silent as the grave, too. They’re half a mile out, but he’s scanned every inch of that place twice over, just to be safe. Didn’t need to be running from one trap just get snagged in another. 

Funny, that’s  _ exactly _ how it feels. Nerves like pincers grip in his chest.

“No one,” MacCready confirms grimly.

“I see.” Jack’s shoulders slump. “Edward’s men must have given a good account of themselves. But not good enough, sadly. Stick close, follow my orders, and I’m sure everything will be fine. Let’s go.”

Crickets hum in the damp grass as they pick their way towards the wrought iron letters arched over the circle drive into Parsons. The sky bleeds red to blue with nightfall, like the bodies growing cold beneath it. Cabot staggers when the corpses slump into sight. Steeling himself, he peels his eyes away from the gore strewn across the concrete and forges ahead.

MacCready holds his rifle tight, and his shoulders tighter. More than a dozen lie dead on the ground. By the sounds of Cabot’s cryptic warnings, the raiders didn’t outnumber them. They  _ overpowered _ them. Some chemical crap. Most chems just make raiders stupid reckless. By the looks of it, Cabot’s serum made them stupid  _ strong _ . MacCready’s nose wrinkles with disgust as he steps past a stranded arm missing its person.

When the shadow of the overhang, MacCready feels the tightness straining in his muscles shift into his throat.

It’s close quarters they’re heading into, the three of them. They’re outmanned and outgunned. Natasha’s gotten better. A _ lot _ better. Heck, she’s half the reason he’s here with a gun in his hands and not hogtied and roasted by Winlock and Barnes.

But the last time they were locked between walls was in Goodneighbor. It’s been open air since then. More room to move. More space for stray bullets to fly somewhere that  _ isn’t _ through his body and out the other side.

No time for a cigarette. He chews on his chapped lips instead. Danse took her through ArcJect. Lieutenant Mudcrab was pleased enough to want her on his team. 

Lieutenant Mudcrab had power armor that could outlast a rogue bullet.

“We need to get to my office,” Jack tells them as they step inside. “From there, we can see how bad things really are.”

No turning back now. Natasha follows next, revolver drawn. MacCready guards their backs. 

Dust has settled on the chaos wrecked over the lobby. Anyone with duller sights might not catch the blood stains setting into the moth-eaten area rug ringed with sagging couches, or the fresh bullet holes flecked through the wooden walls. But the marks are hours old, not centuries. The furniture is overturned and out of place. Another one of Ed Deegan’s mercs wilts, face-down, behind a table split through the center. Three sets of double doors into the interior wings are shut tight. The raider horse rode through this place, snuffing out what life was left there, and then burrowed further in.

Sure enough, voices carry faintly to them from the depths, like tell-tale scrabbling in the night. The words are scrambled by distance, but the cadence is clear. The rats have settled in to nest; the front guard is a formality. They’re assuming the show is over.

Jack takes the door to the right, grasping the handles and tugging hard. They rattle, stubbornly clinging closed. 

“The door’s barred from the other side somehow,” Jack laments. “We’ll have to find a way around.”

MacCready sighs, shrugging past Cabot. “Move,” he grunts.

The doors shudder against MacCready’s grip. A second tug doesn’t do it, either, but a trail of splinters clatters from the frame. 

Okay. New approach.

MacCready rears back, and plants a kick directly on the seam between the doors.

Wood patters on the shoulders of his duster. He winces at a slice along his cheek. The battered doors yawn apart from each other, dangling piecemeal from their hinges.

“Well, I suppose that works,” Cabot comments through pursed lips.

Over Jack’s shoulder, Natasha holds up a hand. MacCready stiffens, listening to the voices carrying from further in. Cabot presses past him into the next room over. MacCready scowls after him before following suit. Guess they’ll have to hope the noise didn’t trigger the horde. 

It’s a short ways to Cabot’s office. The wood moans in protest underfoot. MacCready grimaces as Cabot’s feet rustle over paper tumbleweeds cast adrift from an overturned wastebasket. They’re lucky the raiders think they’ve won already. Trying this as a stealth job would be a nightmare.

“Edward!” Cabot rushes forward. 

MacCready jerks his rifle up, exercising caution where Cabot had thrown it to the wind. The threshold creaks idly, eerily quiet between the ragged breaths of Ed Deegan.

“How badly are you hurt?” Cabot asks him. One glance tells MacCready the ghoul is lucky to be alive. The raiders wanted something richer than blood if they didn’t bother to finish him.

“I’m not dead yet,” Deegan rasps. “But I don’t think I can get up.”

“You kept them from using the elevator?” Cabot demands.

“Yeah. I...I sent the elevator down to the basement like you wanted and shut it down. Haven’t seen anybody for quite a while, I think. It’s hard to keep track of time.”

“Are you sure you can’t get up? I could really use your help.”

MacCready catches the ripple of disgust on Natasha’s face from the corner of his eye. MacCready covers his own disgust beneath a cough. For an alleged genius, Cabot’s a real piece of work. MacCready swallows down a fresh prickle of anxiety. They’re about to see what kind of  _ work _ their mad scientist was stringing together down in this basement of his.

“Yeah, Jack,” Deegan grunts. “I’m pretty damn sure. Listen, Jack. It’s too quiet up here--”

“I know,” Cabot says grimly. He shifts away from Edward, behind the desk where a terminal flickers. Cabot’s fingers tap rapidly across the keyboard. “They’ve definitely reached the basement. Although I don’t understand how they knew to get past the-- oh, nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Stopping the elevator was supposed to stop them from breaching the subfloor. If they’re already down there, then we need to take the most direct route.”

Something glows to life in the corner of MacCready’s eye. The elevator utters a long, metallic groan as it rumbles awake. A light above the doors and a soft  _ ding _ signal its arrival.

“Now,” Cabot turns his attention to Natasha and MacCready. “This will take you to the basement. When the area at the base is cleared, send the elevator back up and wait for me to meet you. Do not proceed further until I join you.”

MacCready narrows his eyes. “Sounds a lot like you’re tossing us down there first to soak up the bullets.”

“I can see how it might appear that way,” Cabot replies evenly. “But the simple fact is that this is an older facility. The elevator in particular has a tendency to stall. The terminal here and the one in the subfloor laboratory can reactivate it when this happens. If the elevator stops with the two of you on the way down, I’ll be here to fix it. And if it stops with  _ me _ inside, well...here. Enter these commands into the subfloor terminal, and it should restart. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Cabot hands Natasha a series of scribbles on a shred of paper. She pockets it hesitantly.“If the raiders are already down,” she posits, “we can go the same route they did and surprise them from behind.”

Cabot waves away her suggestion. “Time is of the essence. We take the elevator.”

MacCready frowns in her direction. Why bother taking the way the raiders  _ know _ about if they can come in with the advantage of surprise? But Natasha’s smart enough to figure that on her own.

She’s also twitchy as hell, teetering from foot to foot. Itching fingers on the inside of her palms. Tapping on the holster of her pistol.

It sends him shivers of a flashbulb memory: the two of them, backs braced against the stairs in that warehouse in Goodneighbor, right before they plunged around the corner. Right before MacCready got shot in the leg. Nevermind the grenades and shrapnel and tumble from a second-story that came later.

He feels that flutter of nerves kick him in the gut all over again.

__________________________

By the time the elevator doors draw shut, MacCready knows she’s sweating. So is he. The shadowy semi-light casts her shallow breathing into sharp relief that swells when they begin to sink to the basement below.

MacCready shifts his grip on his combat rifle. This can’t be another Goodneighbor. No windows to jump out of down here. A chill sweeps over him as they slip, sluggishly, from the surface. All the while, the elevator moans like a feral ghoul, begging to be put out of its misery. 

The carriage shudders with a sudden, peeling whine. He tastes the tremor ride through his throat to the thumping in chest. Something clammy grips his hand. MacCready jolts, and then abruptly stills.

Natasha lets go of his wrist, looking anywhere but him. “Sorry,” she mumbles. The word is warped and thick and dripping in fear. The elevator slows to half-speed. Her eyelids flutter. She chokes the pistol in a vice grip.

MacCready swipes his hand over his duster. She’s scared.  _ Too _ scared. Scared isn’t focused. Scared is stupid. “Hey, show me your shot.”

Readily, she obliges. The pistol levels to the thin slice of light between the doors. MacCready studies her stance with a small, satisfied smile.

“You gonna fix it?” She asks expectantly, voice fraying. 

“Don’t need to, Killer.” He winks. “Natasha, you’ve got this.”

The elevator grounds with a sudden, thunderous boom that rattles them inside. 

“Get ready,” he tells her, pressing close the wall.

“Huh?”

A pair of heads turns their way as the elevator doors wrench apart. Like loaded springs, MacCready and Natasha bust from behind the doors. Two bullets and a blink later, their marks are face-down on the floor. They tip-toe past the bleeding thugs into a long, narrow hallway. Above them, an overhead light dangles lopsided, buzzing like a fly. The hallway blinks in and out of darkness as it shorts and sputters.

“Hey, did you hear that?”

More around the corner. MacCready flattens against a metal door, aiming towards the end of the corridor. MacCready squints past the flicker, waiting with his trigger finger poised. _ There _ . Two of them crawling forward between the flash of light and shadow. He sinks his shot and watches his target stagger back. MacCready scowls. He doesn’t fall.

Stupid serum bullshit. MacCready makes a bullseye out of the raider’s forehead and sends him slumping to the floor. His ear singes with the sound of Natasha’s revolver firing beside him. From his periphery, the second raider edges further down the hall, unimpeded. The revolver fires again, and again.

MacCready feels each shot burn a hole inside his chest. Not this. Not again.

A bullet clips past his toes. MacCready shirks back in the nick of time. He fires three rounds at the bastard closing in on them. It’s enough to send him sprawling.

Natasha’s gun keeps firing. Another shot whistles past his cheek. The momentum tickles his skin like a whisper.

MacCready turns towards her, fuming. “Boss, what the hell?!”

“Mac,  _ move! _ ”

Natasha yanks him by the collar, sending them both staggering backwards. A fresh hail of bullets spatters the place he stood seconds before. MacCready turns, blinking rapidly, and follows the spray to the shattered ceiling above, and feels his mouth fall open.

It’s flaked apart, with concrete slabs leaning lopsided in a haphazard slope up to the main floor. Dead raiders decorate the hill of rubble. Natasha’s handiwork. 

“Raiders must have blasted their way through,” she murmurs, reloading. For a few seconds, MacCready watches the glint of fresh shells slide into the cylinder. The sight of it stokes a smile on his face. Used to be, he could hear Natasha reloading with the sound of metal meeting pavement. There’s something soothing about the way she thumbs in the bullets in an even pattern, shifting the cylinder between two fingers, gently clockwise.

It’s full again. Time’s up for the assholes still rattling off shots from their nest up above them.

“How did I miss that?” MacCready ponders while they mop up the remnants. 

“Even sniper eyes can’t be looking everywhere at once,” Natasha answers coyly. “I’ve got your back.”

MacCready eases back from the sights of his rifle.  _ What happened to the girl grabbing my hand in the elevator? _ Any memory of her is lost to the flash of fire on Natasha’s face. 

_ Shit _ , MacCready grins. She’s having  _ fun. _ The puff of nerves in his chest gives way to something gentle. A billowy feeling that leaves a lift in his steps when the last raider falls, and he slinks back to the elevator.

“Lab’s that way,” Natasha gestures down the hall. “The rest of them must be holed up in there.”

His smile dissipates when he pushes the button of the elevator. His eyes drift to a barred window behind the door in the hallway. Locked within the cell, he sees a skeleton dangled limp and lifeless over the bed frame. Shaky etchings in chalk stare back at him from the far wall. Gibberish, mostly. Except for the desperate plea of ‘HELP ME’ underlined a half dozen times.

“Let’s get Cabot down here and finish this,” MacCready groans. “This crap’s creepy,”

__________________________

It’s over. Not twenty minutes later, it’s over.

The open elevator awaits them at the end of the hall, yawning wide and tired. Natasha mimics the motion, moving her hand to cover her mouth. The fire’s snuffed out in her eyes, and now they sag, weathered and weary once more. MacCready feels the fatigue pulse in his steps, every motion drawing out the setting soreness in his limbs. They’ve been on their feet since dawn, and now, not even a stuffy bunkhouse or a crumbling rooftop sanctuary awaits them. 

Just the open air, and the open road, and an open target on his back.

“Well, that was fricken weird,” Mac murmurs, nudging Natasha’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” she shrugs.

“You  _ guess _ so? What, you telling me aliens were normal back in your day? That guy was  _ demented _ . So’s his whole family. Glad we’re done with them. Next thing you’re gonna say is ‘everybody wore hats like that’.” MacCready prods, but it doesn’t get the rise he’s looking for. Natasha slips back into sullen silence. The elevator approaches. 

It’ll take them back up top. And then…

He’ll be right where she found him. Hundreds of caps richer, sure, but still backed into a corner. Those caps were meant to clear his ledger with Winlock and Barnes. Now, they seem set on keeping that ledger red. The only payment they want is one he’s not willing to suffer.

MacCready shuffles his rifle between his hands. Natasha seems to shrink as they step inside the musty chill of the elevator. The doors grumble shut. 

MacCready puffs a sigh, feeling abruptly deflated himself. “Guess we’re out of work again.”

“Mm,” Natasha hums through pursed lips. 

MacCready swallows. Natasha’s not looking at him. She’s looking like she wants to bore holes straight through the metal walls as the carriage crawls slowly from the subfloor. The grate of the elevator claws like nerves at the back of his skull. 

“Guess we both kept our promises. Got me heaps richer, and you’ve got the makings of a sharpshooter.”

“Mhmm.”

No quips. No smirk. 

She has to know what he’s trying to ask. She holds herself taut, standing stiff with her shoulders rigid, facing forward. She knows what he’s going to say. But sure doesn’t seem like she wants to hear it.

Maybe she never really forgave him for what he said to her on that rooftop. Maybe he could pass her those caps back, the extra she threw in after they reunited in Cambridge. Not like they’re helping him half as much as he thought. Not like he really deserved them all that much. Maybe he could give her back a cap for every bullet that would be in his back by now if she hadn’t been watching it.

MacCready licks his lips and tries again. “You know, coursers aren’t easy kills. Even for the best they’re...well, they’re the worst. You’re gonna need somebody watching your back. And loads more target practice. I’ve got a few specific ones in mind, actually.”

If she offers any answer, it’s lost to the shrill screech of the elevator. Abruptly, the carriage halts. It sways for a few seconds before growing still. 

“Damn thing must be sticking,” MacCready mutters, eyeing the hatch in the ceiling. Sooner or later, Cabot will need a way up himself. He doesn’t seem the type to try to climb his way through the mountain of rubble. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. Might be the safest spot that’s left for a rest anytime soon.

Might be the chance he needs to change Natasha’s mind.

But she’s quiet.  _ Dead _ quiet. MacCready peels his gaze from the ceiling to Natasha with a growing dread.

She isn’t breathing. She’s  _ trembling.  _

“Boss?”

Her eyes are glazed in raw panic. Her chest suddenly heaves as she gasps for air and tears it to shreds between her teeth.

“Natasha?” 

She chokes on what little air she swallows. She doesn’t hear him. Doesn’t see him. She’s somewhere far, far away. Just like that night in Bunker Hill, when he puzzled over why she would rather scale her way to a rooftop then settle for the bed cramped in the crawlspace comforts of Savoldi’s.

Suddenly, he sees it. How could he have missed it? Sniper eyes can’t see everything. But she’d laid it out for him, in plain view.

Those rooms are too small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. MacCready has a nightmare about his time with the Gunners. A Gunner named Skinner took a group of settlers hostage, and forced the wife to choose who to kill or save: her son or her husband. She killed her husband to save her son at Skinner's behest, but Skinner then killed her and her child regardless. MacCready remembers another Gunner spoke up to try and stop it, but Skinner killed them, too. MacCready recalls then leaving the Gunners the next day. In his dream, the family was replaced with Natasha, Danse, and Duncan for the wife, husband, and son respectively. MacCready's dream forced him to rewatch it without being able to change the events that happened, but he also recognizes that he probably couldn't have changed things, anyway.
> 
> 2\. When Natasha and MacCready get back in the elevator to leave Parsons, the elevator stalls halfway. Natasha has a panic attack and appears to stop breathing/to do so in erratic spurts. It's at this point MacCready realizes she's either claustrophobic or otherwise triggered by small spaces. She displayed some nerves on the descent, and was having some observable reaction that Mac had falsely attributed to nerves about the impending fight.
> 
> 3\. I want this story to be hopeful and happy, and we'll certainly get there. But our girl Nat is not in a good way right now :( I think Mac needs to tend to his mental health, too. And they both need a lot of love and comfort. That will come!! I promise!! But, there are some things we need to unpack for them to be able to grow that way. I'll keep content warnings at the beginnings of chapters for anything that might fall in this arena. But as always, please take care of yourselves and in what you read. I'm always open to talk if I need to add tags or warnings for something!
> 
> 4\. This will be my last update before the New Year. I wish you all happy and healthy and warm holidays. <3 <3
> 
> 5\. If you read and liked, feel free to feed the writer comments and kudos, or come say hey to me @adventuresofmeghatron on Tumblr. :)


	7. Trouble Comes Knocking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacCready offers shelter and a plan. Natasha remembers her reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back friends! Happy New Year!
> 
> We are picking off immediately where we left off. Please take pity on me for becoming very invested in naming my protagonist "Natasha" before realizing she spends more time than originally thought talking to...someone named "Nat". And also, more importantly, please take special note of the content warnings as follows:
> 
> -The beginning of the chapter features a bystander viewing someone having a PTSD episode/panic attack related to small spaces. If you wish to skip this entirely, my advice is to begin reading after the first scene break and I will summarize in very plain terms in the end notes.
> 
> -The end of the chapter involves something that could be classified as a dissociative episode, a PTSD episode, a flashback, a panic attack, or all of the above. I am not a psychology expert, but am completely and totally open to tagging this as something different if it needs to be. 
> 
> -In addition to the above, the ending segment also involves explicit reference to a home raid by government officials/police officers as well as discussion of immigration issues, as well as violence involving a young teenager.
> 
> -If you wish to skip the ending segment, stop reading when Natasha goes to MacCready's room, and I will summarize in very plain terms in the end notes.
> 
> -I am always, always, always open to talking about additional things that I can tag if they will be helpful <3

“It’s too…” The rest is shredded between Natasha’s chattering teeth. Her fingers clench at the sides of her sleeves until her knuckles grow white. 

Fever flush blooms across her cheeks. Her body tells a different story than the one that’s got her eyes glazed. The one that’s stuck on loop, playing over and over in her mind. “It’s so _cold_ ,” she gasps. The sound heaves from her chest in ragged tatters.

No, it isn’t. She’s sweating bullets. The stale air milling in the elevator is balmy at best. Air she’s sucking in and spitting out before it even touches her lungs. Natasha wavers where she stands. The fog on her face sharpens into terror. 

“Natasha?” MacCready reaches tentatively to steady her. She doesn’t notice. The shivers shudder down her spine and past his palms. 

Something sputters on her lips. No more words. Just the sound of her breath strangled in her throat. 

“I-I don’t know what to do,” he stammers. “Tell me how to help you!”

Panic burns in the bile at the back of MacCready’s mouth. The movement in Natasha’s chest grows suddenly still. Not breathing again. Something waters in her eyes. The nightmare she can’t wake up from. The one that chokes a noose around her neck.

He knows that rope. Knows that look. Knows sometimes, when he wakes up in the morning, that’s the kind of fear he finds etched in the lines of his forehead. Knows it flashes on his face like lightning every time a feral comes crawling from the shadows. Knows that feeling forms calluses on your mind the same way his rifle raised them on his hands. 

Fuck if he knows how the hell to _fix_ it. Two dozen bottles of whiskey and a hundred games of Zeta Invaders say she doesn’t know how to fix it, either. Just where to hide, up a perilous climb to the chill of an open rooftop.

The rooftop where he’d ask her: _Don’t you get cold?_

Cold. He can fix cold. 

“Here.”

MacCready slips his hands from Natasha long enough to slip out of his duster. He drapes it over shoulders, tugging her clawed fingers away from her arms and pulling the coat tight to her chest. Tentatively, her fingers curve on the edge of the fabric, clutching it closer. 

Something sparks through the dull haze in her eyes. “S-still...” She gasps for air and suckss it down too quickly, coughing for a moment before the eerie stillness settles in her chest once more.

Natasha’s waking nightmare is a door that just won’t budge. MacCready scowls. All right. Time to bust it down.

“Hey, come here.” He doesn’t wait for her mangled answer, he just ropes an arm around her waist, and another around her shoulders, and reels her to his chest. 

A hum of surprise slips from her lips. He swallows past the tickle it leaves at the base of his neck, where her nose grazes his Adam’s apple. MacCready brushes away the stray wave of hair that itches at his chin and smooths it down to her head. Some scent of sweetness, faint, but soothing, lingers in its wake. The heat of her cheek scorches his collarbone.

Natasha finds her breath, panting against the thrum of MacCready’s heartbeat. “It’s…”

“Cold still?” MacCready murmurs. Not sure what he’s supposed to do about it this time. MacCready can feel his own slick of sweat starting on his brow.

Natasha curls tighter in his arms. Her voice is in splinters. “It’s too _small_.”

“Big enough for both of us.”

“Both of us?” She blinks rapidly. Her mouth pulls down at the corners. MacCready feels his own lift upward. Good to see some signs of life on her face. 

“Yeah. Maybe bigger than Savoldi’s, come to think of it.”  
  
“You’ll stay?”

The words feel haunted, fluttering on a shallow breath against his neck. MacCready swallows again, peeling his gaze to the hatch at the top of the stalled elevator. “Not like I got a lot of other options.”

Natasha stiffens in his arms. MacCready winces. Somewhere, in the swarm of memory buzzing in her brain, those words stung. He fumbles for ones that will soothe. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll stay.”

When she doesn’t ease, he adds a sheepish afterthought. “I was actually worried for a second there you were gonna run off without me.”

Natasha says nothing. MacCready feels the flex and fold in her chest. She’s fighting back now, tugging her exhale just a little longer, nudging each inhale in line with his own. Hesitantly, he draws his hand in slow circles in between her shoulder blades, tracing the pattern in time with the crest and fall of air between them. 

Somewhere in the minutes that pass, the stiffness in her bones comes undone and the shivers down her spine dissolve. Natasha’s head rests heavy against his shoulder. Her eyes squint shut, brow pinched and twitching. They stand, wrapped in silence and each other, in the hollow of the elevator. 

Not the kind of rest he was looking for. It’s sticky with sweat and bits of blood from their firefight. MacCready’s lids grow weighty, mouth parting in a wide yawn. But it’s warm. And it’s safe. Something for him to hold onto, while he can.

And for a little while, he does. 

Until the elevator shrieks to life with a sudden rumble and Natasha snaps from his arms like a rubber band. 

Her fists slam against the rattling doors. MacCready puffs an exasperated sigh. “Not getting there any faster by breaking the damn thing all over again.”

Her only answer is a sharp hiss of air between her teeth. The elevator shudders to the surface, climbing with the fresh surge of panic bobbing in her throat. The doors squeal apart with a high-pitched cry. Natasha sprints from sight.

Maybe the flight risk hasn’t passed just yet.

MacCready stumbles out of the elevator in time to see the edge of his duster vanish around the corner. The sound of her shoes claps back against the tile. MacCready starts after her, the burn of eyes on his back giving him pause. Ed Deegan slumps by the desk in the office, scowling between MacCready and the empty doorway.

“What happ--” Deegan starts. But MacCready shrugs off his scrutiny, pushing past the groan in his tired muscles to chase after the fading echo of Natasha’s footsteps.

He finds her pacing in the circle drive, twining fingers through her hair, drinking in her newfound freedom with her eyes shut and tilted to the sky. Moonlight bathes her face in silver. She’d look like a ghost, drifting aimless and lost, if it weren’t for the flush still coloring her cheeks.

Brisk air simmers on his skin, muffling the lingering heat with a sudden chill. MacCready’s steps slow as he nears her. He pauses to rifle through his pack, before tentatively reaching out with the can he draws from his bag.

“Here,” he murmurs.

Her eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused. She studies the object with a ripple of skepticism. “Got anything stronger?”

“Not what you need right now,” he grunts, shoving the water into her grasp. 

She cracks the tab and sips. MacCready toes the gravel with his boots, scuffing over the stains left where Deegan’s men had fallen. Aluminum crackles beneath Natasha’s heel. She kicks, sending the empty can clattering over the concrete.

“Thanks,” she rasps tersely.

MacCready glances her way. She’s clenching at her sleeves again, shoulders drawn tight to her ears. Looking anywhere but him. MacCready scowls.

“I _mean_ it,” Natasha murmurs insistently. 

MacCready nods curtly. “You watch my back, I got yours.” He wets his lips before he takes a stab at the question gnawing on his mind. “It’d be a lot easier to look out for you if I know what I’m supposed to be watching for.”

Natasha pats at her pockets, finding her lighter and flicking fitfully at the wheel. When a few more pats don’t find her pack, MacCready plucks his own smokes from his pocket and offers her one.

Her eyes slip shut again as she savors the drag. MacCready spares her the seconds it takes for him to light his own before intruding on her peace. 

“So is it just small spaces? Get stuck in a fridge as a kid or…?”

“Side effects of cryostasis,” Natasha sighs, waving her hands dismissively. “Little parting gift from Vault-Tec. They put us in these... _pods_. You know the rest already.”

MacCready’s brow furrows. He clears his throat. “Do you--”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

 _Don’t blame you._ He nods again, letting his footsteps gradually wander. Whether their paths are parting or sticking to the same road, they’re in no shape to head anywhere in the middle of the night. Might as well get to know their surroundings.

MacCready soaks in the sights of the Commonwealth bathed in black, taking stock of their perimeter while Natasha steals herself some solitude. He sucks in a smoky breath and blows it back out. The gray tendrils bend and fade in the darkness. From the corner of his eye, he keeps the little flicker of light from Natasha’s cigarette pinned in his periphery. 

Natasha’s always saying something. He’d brushed her off a dozen times, thinking she never said anything _straight_. But there it was, out in the open. Not like she was trying to hide it. 

So, this time it’s silence. This time, he’ll listen. 

When the company of the cigarette wears out, he snuffs the cinders to sleep in the dirt and saunters slowly back to the circle drive. 

Natasha glances up towards him, sheepish with a shy smile. “You probably want this back.”

She starts to shrug from the duster, but MacCready waves her off. “Keep it ‘til morning. It’s chilly out here.”

He studies her carefully. Got the gleam back in her eyes. The one that spells trouble. But beneath it, there’s lines screaming for sleep.

“So,” she murmurs softly.

“So?”

The semi-smile grows. “You said you’d fight the courser with me.”

“Said we’d work our way up to it,” he corrects her. 

“So, what do _you_ need, partner?”

“A few less problems,” MacCready says coyly. But he’s smiling, too. Plans aren’t for people trying to bail out the window. “Think a few bullets might whittle ‘em down.”

“Are these problems named Undercut and Toothless?”

“Try Winlock and Barnes.” MacCready blinks back at her, puzzled. “You met them, don’t you remem--” he cuts himself off with a snicker. “Oh yeah, _you_ probably don’t.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Winlock and Barnes, Undercut and Toothless, Tato and _Tahto_ , same thing.”

MacCready frowns. “Who the heck says ‘ _Tahto_ ’?”

Natasha cuts past his inquiry. “It’s your beef. So what’s the play?”

MacCready tugs on the brim of his hat. By now, he knows better that he’s not the _only_ one with sniper eyes. He hopes the gesture hides at least half his uncertainty. She’s sure to sniff out the rest. 

“I don’t know yet,” he confesses. “Thought we could put our heads together.”

If anyone has half a hope of talking those two idiots out of their vendetta, it’s Natasha. She could be his advocate. Negotiate on his behalf. Talk the trouble into tucking tail. She used to make a living of it, after all.

There’s a burn on his next swallow. Lately, blood’s the only currency the Gunners deal in. They’re all too eager for his.

“Well,” Natasha prods, “we can’t stand here forever.”

Between the tide of red X’s dotting the map, and the places with X’s on _their_ names, not a lot of standing room remains in the Commonwealth. Something scratches on the edge of his memory.

Sanctuary Hills. That’s the place Natasha thawed out of, assuming she told the good paladin the truth. It’s a thrown-away corner of the Commonwealth. Nothing much there to worry about. Nothing much that would bother the Gunners, either, if they heard that’s the place he’d holed up in.

There might be one spot they won’t tread on.

“So we lay low for a second somewhere they can’t touch,” MacCready says. “Diamond City’s a bit uppity for my taste, but it’s not like we’re swimming in options. Gunners aren’t gutsy enough to make themselves known in place like that.”

Natasha opens her mouth, then closes it. Well, _that’s_ new.

MacCready perks his brow. “What?”

“There might be people not so fond of me in Diamond City.”

“ _Shocker,”_ he coughs a laugh. “On a scale from Magnolia to Whitechapel Charlie, what kind of ruffled feathers are we talking about?”

Natasha chuckles, but the sound fades quickly. “Closer to Mags, maybe. But not _that_ close. Won’t give us any trouble if we don’t make any for them.”

“Well, if they do, we’ll make ‘em regret it.”

__________________________

The sun blazes overhead in a cloudless sky. Summer’s saving its worst for last, it seems. The heat sizzles on his skin, licking like flames that are sure to burn. MacCready swipes his hat from his head, knuckling fingers through his hair to stave off the sweat. As he does, a shadow falls across his face, blotting out the sweltering ball of fire in the sky.

He looks up, scowling deeply. “Oh, you gotta be frickin kidding me.”

_“People of the Commonwealth, do not interfere. Our intentions are peaceful. We are the Brotherhood of Steel.”_

“Son of a gun,” MacCready tugs the hat back on his head, if only to block the sight of the sinister behemoth soaring in the sky.

One glance at his traveling companion tells him she’s just as pleased. “Well, shit,” she mutters.

“Looks like the Brotherhood want to play war,” he grumbles. “Didn’t think I’d see it here.”

Natasha’s quiet the rest of the way. Not like her, but MacCready resists his urge to pry. But not his urge to steal glances at her here and there. Something’s still haunted on her face. A ghost he doesn’t know the name of. Maybe it’s the parting gift from Vault-Tec, still looming over her. Or, it could be Fenway Park. At least, that’s what they used to call it back in her time, before it was the Great Green Jewel.

It might be a sense of safety a lot of folks feel when they stroll through the gates of the Commonwealth’s finest four walls. The metal doors shutter closed behind them, barring them from the rolling wasteland. The twist in MacCready’s chest isn’t reassuring. It’s homesick. 

Diamond City hosts better sights and smells than Goodneighbor. Twinkling string lights criss-cross over the ramshackle boulevards. Plumes of steam and smoke rise from the centerpiece of the market. Locals mill about the stalls, swiping caps for something salvaged. No death threats and no knife fights, but not half the fun, either.

As they saunter down the steps from the gatehouse to the city proper, he feels sticky eyes clinging to their every move. Diamond City’s goons are still dressed in their stupid little pre-war ensembles, hiding their faces behind cages. Some sports gear from the good old days. Not everything’s the same: looks like they beefed up that security since his last stroll through town. Somebody started feeding those guys. Either that, or they started snorting chems in between shifts. Could be strung out on buffout. 

MacCready stiffens, shooting sharp eyes to the leering guards. Even so, he maintains his distance. You can take a guy out of the Gunners. Doesn’t make that guy less of a _merc_. Those watchful eyes won’t let him forget he’s as conspicuous as a sore thumb here. Natasha’s not all that much better. The bits of leather armor she’d recovered from Ed Deegan’s crew are littered with the odd bullet hole. Beneath the tattered edges, her revolver gleams clean and pristine at her hip. 

Goodneighbor wouldn’t have batted an eye. MacCready sniffs. A sudden warmth chases away his uncertainties. 

Goodneighbor doesn’t have _Takahashi’s_.

That twist of homesickness morphs into an irritable rumble in MacCready’s gut. They’d taken a rest outside of Parsons, split a can of cram, and hauled themselves south as soon as daylight broke on the horizon. Hardly enough to pay their bodies back for running ragged over half the Commonwealth. 

“Hey, Boss,” MacCready nudges her shoulder. “What do you say we grab a bite before we--”

A sharp, agitated bark cuts his question short. MacCready’s eyes go wide, darting down the road. A smear of black and brown fur pelts towards them with the force of a hurricane. Before he can budge, the hound collides with Natasha, sending her sprawling. MacCready jerks for his weapon, and then stills beneath the sizzling stare from a caged face nearby. Helplessly, he glances back to Natasha, pinned beneath the pooch. Natasha’s laughter bubbles up in between the slurps across her face. The dog’s tail wags cheerfully.

“Uh...Boss?”

She presses the canine back so she can stand and dust herself off. He whimpers plaintively until she ruffles his ears. “Missed you too, Dogmeat.”

“ _Dogmeat_?” MacCready surveys the mutt skeptically.

“What kind of name is--”A reproachful yip curtails his critique. MacCready’s frown deepens.

Natasha shrugs. “He’s a smart pup. I wouldn’t mess with him.”

“Considering he could lay you flat in a matter of seconds, yeah, maybe don’t pick a fight with this one,” MacCready smirks. Speaking of which, her tumble left a streak of dirt across her face. “You got something right about here.” He motions to her forehead.

She wipes halfheartedly with the corner of her sleeve. It only serves to spread the grime on her skin. MacCready rolls his eyes.

“Hold still a second.”

“Wha-- oh.” Natasha’s stifled protest rolls in a slow swallow down her throat. MacCready thumbs the scuff from her face. Now, it’s brown eyes boring into him along with the watchful guards. 

Clearing his throat, he backs away. “There.”

Pattering footsteps punctuate the discomforted quiet that slips between them as they cast their gazes anywhere but each other. Someone skids to a sudden halt behind them. MacCready peers over his shoulder to find a young girl fixing his companion with a glare surly enough to put his own teenage scowls to shame. She crosses her arms over her chest for good measure. Dogmeat pants, oblivious as his attention flickers between them. 

Natasha offers the edge of a smile, one that’s careful and cautious. “Hey, Nat.”

“Blue,” the girl answers tersely.

“Wait a second. Her name’s Nat, too?” MacCready side-eyes Natasha doubtfully.

“Her name’s Blue because she’s the vault-dweller,” the girl says matter-of-factly. “I was here first, so she gets a different name.”

 _His_ Nat nods in agreement.

“Okay, I get it,” MacCready’s mouth curves in amusement when he steals a glance towards Natasha. “ _Blue_.”

“So,” young Nat turns her scrutiny on him. “What’s the replacement’s name?”

Replacement? Mac’s easy smile falters. There’s enough venom in those words to down a deathclaw. And enough gasoline to light the edge of his curiosity on fire. This kid might be the ringleader of the not-fans-of-Natasha club. 

“Name’s MacCready,” he replies evenly. “Nice to meet you, Nat.”

“‘MacCready’ sounds like a last name. What’s your first name?”

Kid’s sharp. MacCready relents. _“Robert Joseph_ MacCready, at your service,” he tips his hat her way. “You can call me R. J.”

Natash-- _Blue_ \-- snorts with sudden laughter. MacCready bristles, feeling a fresh flush of pink prickle on his cheeks. “Something funny about my name, _Blue_?”

Blue shakes her head with a wide smile. “I just realized _I_ didn’t know your name, either.”

MacCready throws his hands in mock frustration. “You think you know a person!”

Nat is less than amused. “Where’s my sister, Blue?”

MacCready grimaces. The laughter fades on Natasha’s face, leaving weariness in its wake. “Still in Sanctuary.”

Nat’s bottom lip trembles, eyes brimming with unbidden tears. “Why did you even come back here?”

MacCready’s eyes flicker to the ogling faces watching the scene unfold in the street. A sharp glare turns their heads back the other way. He steals a quick glance at Blue. She’s trembling, too.

“You know the Mayor--”

“Nick was right about you!” Nat spits, spinning on her heel and storming back down the avenue. Dogmeat follows after her with a mournful howl. MacCready tracks their trail to a house of corrugated metal siding with a dead neon sign lingering above the doorway: Publick Occurrences. 

The name itches at another faint memory. _A View from the Vault_. The rolled up newsprint Daisy gave him back in Goodneighbor. The one that didn’t tell him more than he already knew about Natasha. Or, so he thought. Might have said more than he listened to. Keenly, he’s aware of the crumpled paper still padding the bottom of his pack. He can feel the edges poking at him now.

“Should get something to eat,” Natasha rasps. “And a drink. Or...four.”

“Won’t say no to that,” MacCready murmurs, sliding into step beside her as they pick their way through the marketplace. He chews his lip, biting back the questions that linger there. It’s not like Natasha didn’t give him fair warning they might be finding some unfriendly faces in their last resort of a safe haven. He’d take angry teens over triggermen and Gunners any day, though the thought stokes a sheepish internal apology to his younger self.

Still. Seems to be a pattern of hers. Burning bridges ‘til there’s nowhere left to turn. 

“Ask,” Natasha prompts when they seat themselves at Power Noodles. “You’re _painfully_ obvious, by the way.”

“I don’t have anything to hide if you don’t,” MacCready answers evenly. “But I’ll bite.”

Natasha sighs tightly. “Kellogg had a place here, in the city. Mayor wouldn’t give up the key. So, Piper and I pried the lock. Guards came in. We ran. She got caught and I didn’t. More like the mayor hated her, and couldn’t give a crap about me. She got kicked out of town for good. That’s her sister you met back there.”

Piper. Piper _Wright_ . That was the name printed underneath underneath the heading on the article. She knew Natasha’s story enough to memorialize it. Some dim memory, like the flicker on a failing lamp, swims to the surface of his mind. Back in Goodneighbor, tucked in a hotel room with blood and sweat and rebar on the bed. _Trust me, I tried the whole bleeding heart sob story bit. Didn’t end well._

MacCready arches a brow. “That why you stopped running together?”

“No,” Natasha says simply, as if it answers everything. 

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“Hey, Takahashi,” Natasha replies. “I’ll take two.”

MacCready’s stomach moans in protest. Something a single order wouldn’t put a dent in. “I can order on my own,” he grunts.

Natasha blinks at him pityingly as the protectron sets the steaming bowls before her. “Oh, buddy. These are both _mine_.”

MacCready’s eyes narrow, lingering longingly on the noodles piled high. “Uh-huh. No way you finish both--”

“ _Watch me,_ ” Natasha dares through a hefty mouthful.

MacCready’s stomach rumbles irritably. Still, he has to peel his attention away when Takahashi makes the rounds back to him. Natasha’s shoveled down her first helping before he’s even had a chance to order. 

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“ _Three_ , please,” MacCready murmurs, dumbfounded. “Makes no sense. You barely eat a damn thing. Pickiest person I’ve ever met.”

Natasha swipes a sleeve over the edge of her mouth, smirking. “I have refined taste. Only good shit down this gullet.” Her straight face falters, cracking into snickers beneath her breath.

MacCready shakes his head, taking a tentative taste of his own. Wincing, he recoils. The broth singes on his tongue. “You’re so fricken _weird_ ,” he snorts. 

But he’s laughing, too. Miraculously, the noodles in front of her have vanished to the void. She leans back on the squeaky stool, sighing heavy with self-satisfaction. 

Something slices the ease to shreds on her face. “Mac, get down!”

Before he can move, Natasha’s colliding with his sternum, shoving him backwards off the chair. Something hot splashes against his leg. Noodles spill down the sides of the counter, slopping into the street. He staggers back a step before seizing Natasha’s sleeves to stop her from taking them both to the ground.

“The heck was--” MacCready cuts his own question. One look, and he already has his answer. His eyes draw a line between the gunman’s pistol and the trembling man standing just behind the space where MacCready and Natasha sat seconds before. 

“Kyle! I’m your brother,” he pleads, voice quavering. “Put the gun down.”

“No moves!” The gunman barks back. “What have you done with the real Riley? Where’s my brother?”  
  
“I swear, I’m not a synth! Don’t shoot! For god sakes, we’re _family!_ ”

Natasha jerks forward. MacCready’s hand fists on her jacket, tugging her back. “Don’t,” he breathes in her ear.

“I could--”

“Don’t,” he says again, shooting sharp eyes in her direction. “Not what we came here for, not worth getting shot over.”

“I could talk them down,” Natasha hisses back. “I could--”

“Put the gun down, now!” A third voice barks. It runs a ripple through the crowd of onlookers. One of the city guards lumbers towards the brothers, rifle held ready.

MacCready yanks Natasha back with him. She doesn’t protest this time, but her lips still stutter. And there’s a shiver chasing down her spine that leaves a fresh twist of fear in his gut. A sting of memory that recalls a certain flight risk. MacCready tightens his hold on her jacket.

“He’s a synth!” The gunman fixes his hold on the pistol. “He’ll kill us all!”

The gun fires. Blood spatters the street. Natasha jolts. Before MacCready can think, he’s got his arms around her shoulders. From head to toe, she’s sweating but shivering. Fogged over and faded, just like back in the elevator, even in the open air of the market.

“Kyle, no!” Collapsing to his knees before his brother, the man buries his face in his hands. MacCready averts his gaze before the guards demand it.

“Nothing to see here,” they declare coldly. “Move along, all of you!”

Natasha clears her throat. MacCready feels the tremor more than hears it. Flushing, he withdraws from her. 

She gestures to the noodles splattered down the side of the stall. “Sorry about your--”

“Don’t worry about it,” MacCready sighs. “Thanks for keeping an eye out.”

She nods wearily. “Could use that drink right about now.”

__________________________

Natasha’s not alone when she wakes. Before her eyes slide open, her temples throb with the painful pulse of her morning visitor. An old friend aches in her skull, dragging nails down the halls of her mind and stomping its feet across the threshold. 

Well. Hello, hangover. No need to invite it to make itself at home; the turbulent twist in her gut says it’s already done so.

Natasha scrunches against the sheets with a groan. The sound stings. She swallows, and the sensation prickles scratchy and parched. Soreness blooms from her heavy lids as they open, slowly, to slits. Her fingers find their way to her face. Puffy. Maybe bruised. Natasha scowls, a slice of worry leaking in among the nausea. Reluctantly, she shrugs from the sheets and pulls herself upright at the edge of the bed.

The room sways dizzy in the blood rush from her skull to her feet. Natasha braces herself for a moment, choking back the taste of acid on her tongue. She watches her shaking hands grip her knees for stability. The sight of them douses her in a fresh wave of vertigo.

Naked, knobby fingers decorated in little nicks of red from failed knife tricks. Natasha pats her pockets. There. The ring is in there. Just...not on her finger.

Natasha recoils from the bed and draws her hands from her pockets, still bare. Her heart hammers in her chest. Her eyes flutter about the room for something soothing while she worries the open skin of her ring finger between her thumb and her index. 

It’s not as nice as their room at the Rexford, but it beats the inhospitable ‘comforts’ of Savoldi’s. There’s a stitched up couch that’s holding on to at least half it’s stuffing. The bed she fled from is tucked with scratchy blankets and a lumpy pillow. A cracked sink clinging to the wall leaks half-heartedly when she turns the faucet. There’s even a grimy mirror, spiderwebbed with cracks that staggers her for a moment, when she stares into it.

Could just be the age and filth, settled on the glass and on her skin like a filter. That might account for the swollen state of her cheeks, and the thickness of her lids, and the splotches peppered beneath her eyes. But it has no bearing on the stiffness when she blinks. The weighty tug on her breath. The burn that still echoes behind her eyes.

Natasha turns, heart still racing. Something’s missing from the room. Where’s MacCready?

Someone raps loudly on the door. Natasha rakes the room for her revolver. Before she has a chance to snatch it from the bedside table, a gentle voice rumbles from the other side.

“Tovarisch? Are you alive in there? Vadim is very worried about you!”

“I’m fine, Vadim!” Natasha grimaces. Her voice sounds like it’s been put through a shredder.

“Good, good, this pleases me! You can go rouse our friend MacCready! He won’t answer when I come knocking.”

Natasha cradles her forehead in her hands. Separate rooms, right. Of course. It stokes a flicker of memory. A shadowy, murky bit of memory. Dread joins the tangle of queasiness spreading through her chest. 

“Of course,” Vadim carries on, “you miss checkout, I charge you for another night. I’ve no choice. But maybe you’ll have better luck dragging MacCready from that bed.”

“You know,” Vadim continues. “That was a nice trick you did for him last night. I put my own foot in mouth when I mentioned Lucy, but your awful singing really turned him around!”

Lucy. Vadim asked about Lucy. And then, Mac needed a drink. Or twelve. Nat paid. She drank, too. Too much. Misery loves company. Natasha rubs at the pinch in her brow, as if she could massage the memories out of her muddled mind.

But...wait. _Singing?_

“Not sure I know what you’re talking about Vadim,” Natasha mutters.

“You can’t fool Vadim. Travis tells me you let him record some songs last time you were in town. You sing like an angel dipped in honey. _Last night_ you sing like a Brahmin being pulled apart by pliers. Made MacCready laugh harder than any man I’ve ever seen.”

Oh, sweet Jesus. The headache’s laughing at her now, too, if the sudden tempo change thumping through her forehead is any indicator. 

“Don’t worry,” Vadim chuckles. “I’ll keep your secret.”

“Thanks, Vadim,” Natasha sighs, leaning heavy on the wall and relishing the cool press of the wood to the burn on her cheek. “I’ll...talk to Mac.”

Even though the prospect seems bleakly horrifying. Cringey karaoke aside, something happened to carve out this pit of dread and guilt and fear that’s hollowed in her gut. Something she can’t quite capture in her mind’s eye.

Something that smells like nicotine and pine, and lingers on the skin of her neck when she tries to tame the tangle of her hair. 

No, not _that_. It can’t be...that. She bites her lip.

Separate rooms. The thought gives her a sheepish spark of hope. Well, there’s no avoiding him forever. Time to face the music. Maybe _he’ll_ have a clue what song she butchered for the Dugout’s lovely patrons.

Vadim takes his leave, and Natasha takes a breath to settle her strange fester of nerves. Then, she locks the door behind her, and strides deliberately towards the door at the other end of the hall.

She clears her throat, and raps gently. “Hey, Mac? It’s me, Nat.”

Nat. Right, that’s what he calls her now. Or he started to, last night. Never did before. Nat squints against a fresh stab of headache. 

Silence is the only answer. Natasha sighs tightly, preparing to knock again when her gaze catches on the doorknob. The metal is dented, bent haphazardly to one side.

“I’m coming in, don’t freak out,” she mutters. She spares a few seconds, in case he wants to scramble for some semblance of modesty. And then, experimentally, she turns the knob.

It whines open a hair. Natasha puffs out another tired sigh. Couldn’t even be bothered to lock his door. She presses into the room.

“Mac I--”

Something pangs inside her chest. Something empty. Hollow. Like the room in front of her.

The blankets are tucked neat and unruffled on the bed in the corner. The hooks on the walls hang empty. No pack leans against the dresser. No duster crumpled on the floor. No rifle. 

No MacCready.

The place is as untouched and untainted as any in the wasteland could hope to be.

He... _left_.

The silence cuts sharp. Natasha pushes the door closed behind her, and blinks rapidly as the scene begins to blur before her. She scans the room, poking in each nook and cranny. No signs of life. Only...

Something catches her eye. Natasha slides her hand between the wall and the mattress. Something soft greets her grip. She tugs.

Natasha staggers back from the bed, staring at the object strewn across it: a familiar green hat, stained a deep, dried red.

Her heart thumps in her ears. Natasha drops to hands and knees, wrenching aside the covers and peering underneath the bed. The blood splatters seep from the wall into the wooden floor, drying in a sharp, defined line. Someone scrubbed. But not enough. There’s flecks dotting the corner of the comforter. A chemical stench stings against her eyes. 

Natasha retreats, curling arms around her legs as her chest heaves, and heaves. She sucks the air in, but spits it out before it can touch her lungs. The room spins. Something scorches against her cheek.

MacCready left. But not because he meant to. 

But who _took_ him? This is Diamond City. Safest place in the Commonwealth. He said so himself.

Her vision burns and blurs. She knots fingers through her hair, racking her brain for _something_ , some memory of the night she’d forgotten. But only one rears its head, crawling from blood splatter patterns in the wood grain from centuries before MacCready even met her. 

Natasha chokes for air. 

When the trouble came, it didn’t knock. It ripped the front door off its hinges. 

Mamochka’s scream peeled Natasha’s arms from the gap between the wall and her twin bed, where she’d fished a hand down passed smushed and forgotten Mr. Misha to recuse the latest issue of _Grognak_. She ran to the hall, and felt her blood turn to ice, just like big block letters on the men’s vests. Three of them, huge and hulking, with guns drawn and gleaming.

She never really remembered Mamockha’s face right, except for the pictures. The last time she saw it, all she knew was that it wasn’t supposed to look _that_ way. The blood seeped from the pulp on her face and into the cracks in the wood floor of the townhouse. 

Fear like frostbite turned her young body numb and throbbing. Natasha chokes out a cry. She’s numb again now, huddled and helpless on the hotel room floor. Her knuckles bite into the skin of her arms as she clenches tighter.

The men saw her, and Natasha saw them. She ran for the bedroom. For the dresser drawer. Mamochka screamed.

“Natasha, _no_!”

It’s too late. The gun’s in her hands. She pulls the trigger, pulls the trigger, pulls the trigger. Again, again, again. Harder, ‘til the skin of her fingers splits on the metal. As if she can move the truth if she just pushes hard enough. Change fate. Force the pieces back together. Make her family whole again. 

Take away the taser marks that punctuate her side. The ones that sent her thirteen-year-old body slumping like a ragdoll to the floor, and the empty gun clattering after it. The pair of burns branded a colon into her skin. The ones that made her ‘Natasha Sokolova :’. Always trying to figure out what was supposed to come after those two dots. Who was she supposed to be, after.

So she pulled, and pulled, and pulled. But the truth didn’t budge.

There weren’t any bullets loaded in that gun. 

But there _are_ in this one. Natasha stifles a cry. Her wide eyes lock on Kellogg’s pistol, trembling in her hands, aimed at the far wall opposite to her. She swipes the safety back on and drops the gun like it’s scalding. She scoots away from the weapon. Her fingers fold on something shredded on the ground beside her.

She jerks her head to find a bit of paper. Torn. Flecked in blood spots. Waxy with crayon. Tenderly, Natasha plucks it from the floor. A piece MacCready would never intentionally leave behind. She followed the ragged edge of the paper with the fingertips. Something eases in her chest as she takes in the texture.

MacCready asked her where they came from, once, those marks of hers. _Aliens,_ she said, as if she were joking.

Aliens, next door and in your grocery stores and in your streets. Aliens, spreading crime and communism. Aliens, selling your flowers for your weddings and birthdays. Stealing jobs. Dragged out of their houses and into cars that send them places that might as well be nowhere. Leaving little ones behind, lost and stranded, and screaming their names in the intersection. 

Screaming, until her throat felt splintered and Mrs. Russell’s voice murmured in her ear, warm and gentle like Papa’s coffee. _They never meant to leave you. They loved you so, so much._

Those marks are Annika and Valeri. The only thing she has left of them. 

Natasha grabs the well-worn hat from the bed, turning it over in her hands. This can’t be the only thing Duncan has left of MacCready. She clenches it in her grip until her knuckles burn, and the rest of the room finds itself stationary once more. She forces her feet to push her upright. Forces her bones and muscle to move through motions that feel hard and heavy, even as the flurry of fear and doubt beckons her back.

_It’s not what you came here for. It’s not worth getting shot over._

But she’s already outside. Already halfway through the market. Already squeezing past the crowd at Power Noodles. 

“Nan-ni shimasho-ka?”

“Not today, Takahashi,” her voice comes out strained, but certain. Good, she can still talk. She’ll need to. 

Maybe if MacCready were here, if this were happening to someone else, he’d pull her back and tell her to remember her reasons. Find Shaun, whatever it takes. But what if it takes _everything_ , and Shaun still isn’t saved? What if this is all she has to show for it? 

Only ashes.

Natasha feels her reasons in every pulse that strums from her throat through the soles of her feet. There’s a little boy on the other side of that crayon drawing, waiting for his dad to come home. 

And if he doesn’t…

 _She didn’t make it, Vadim._ That was Mac’s answer when their friend asked after Lucy. It’s the only piece from the night before that manages to swim to the surface.

Natasha doesn’t know who Lucy is. But she knows that little boy might not have anyone there to tell him: _They never meant to leave you. They loved you so, so much._  
  
She nearly bumps right into the guard posted at the corner. He doesn’t have a cage on his face, just a pair of shades, and a stature that’s steely and still. 

“Sorry,” she mutters.

“Yes, how dare you interrupt very important guard duties,” the man says sardonically. “Look, no worries. I’ll keep guarding and you keep...citizen-ing.”

It’s almost enough to give her pause. But if she stops for long, she might stop altogether. Her face twists skeptically. The man only shrugs, offering nothing but a sunglassed stare. Natasha sidesteps him down the alleyway with the gaudy neon sign hanging overhead. When she glances back over her shoulder, he’s keeping his promise: positioned in place to block eyes from the alleyway. 

Her heart pounds in her ears. She turns down another short alley, and finds herself before that dreaded door. She takes a deep breath, swallows her pride, and knocks.

“Nick, it’s me. I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Natasha is claustrophobic as a result of her time in cryostasis and also experiences sensation of cold in these instances, even if it is quite the opposite. MacCready comforts her through this scenario until the elevator restarts. They meet outside of Parsons, and plan to go to Diamond City to form a plan to free Mac from the Gunners' vendetta. Afterwards, the plan is that MacCready will help Nat kill a courser.
> 
> 2\. Natasha opens the door to MacCready's room in the Dugout and finds evidence that he was taken from the room against his will. This triggers a memory from her childhood, when her family was also taken form their home against their will. Natasha's childhood home was raided by ICE officers. The scene is ambiguous as we are only getting visceral pieces of this memory, but the implication is that Nat was separated permanently from her parents when she was 13, and perhaps settled in the care of a neighbor named Mrs. Russell. 
> 
> 3\. I am taking a momentary pause to work primarily on OT3 content for February, because goodness knows we could all use some fluff! (And maybe smut? And maybe a little more tinge of angst? hehe.) So you'll find Nat and Deacon and Mac having a much better time in some one shots in the near future. BtG will resume shortly thereafter. Chapter 8 is looking to be a bit of a behemoth! 
> 
> 4\. This chapter hurts! Next chapter...hurts a bit, too. But a few promises: one, that, much like the first time we find Nat in a hungover spiral, pieces of her memory will come back to her. We are going to get to see more about what happened during Mac and Nat's night at the bar. And two, after the hurt, will come so, so much comfort <3
> 
> 5\. One more promise: Natasha will discuss the flashback we see here in far plainer terms in a future chapter.
> 
> 6\. If you read and enjoyed, please feel free to feed the writer kudos or comments. I'm @adventuresofmeghatron on Tumblr if you'd like to connect.


	8. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha seeks help from a former friend to find her missing mercenary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Have a chapter!
> 
> All of my writing plans sort of went awry for this month. I was supposed to write fluffy OT3 things and take a break from BtG. Instead, I wrote 1.5 OT3 smut fics and...well, what I thought was chapter eight ended up being two chapters disguising as one. All that to say, have an update!
> 
> Special thanks to @electricshoebox for pep talking me through my grapple with this chapter <3
> 
> Warnings: Canon-typical violence. Discussion of human trafficking/kidnapping of children. Alcohol use/intoxication.

Natasha swallows past the pulse of her heart in her throat. The words croak out in a whisper she knows he’ll never hear. But her knock inspires movement on the other side of the door.

“Nick,” she says again, louder than a mouse this time. “It’s Natasha.”

His heavy footsteps draw close enough that she catches that familiar, rattling sigh. Stalemate seconds merge into minutes. Natasha shuffles restlessly. The door stays stubbornly shut. She leans her pounding forehead to the cool metal, wets her lips, and pries from a different angle.

“Someone went missing in town last night. Someone else took them. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Imagine that,” Nick’s voice cracks with gravel, same as the dirt underfoot as she startles back a step. “Friends of yours, finding themselves in trouble.”

“Damn it, Nick,” Natasha hisses. He’s got a kid!”

The door wrenches open with a metallic moan.

Light leaks from the interior, casting a brassy glow off that grayscale grimace Natasha knows all too well. Nick Valentine is just as she remembers: patchy and piecemeal, from his tattered trench coat to the barely hidden wires peeking between flaked away plates behind his neck. Hawkish eyes fix to her like spotlights. If only they could beam lasers, his silver age comic hero get-up would be complete. It’s not for lack of trying. Natasha straightens beneath that sizzling stare. Silence steams between them.   


At long last, he offers the barest shake of his head. “You look like shit.”

“You look like shrapnel. Did you lose a few more pieces?”

He grunts in disgust. “I’m losing my patience as we speak.”

“I didn’t come here to replay old arguments.”

“Forgive my foolishness, but for just one fraction of a second, I wondered if you came to apologize. Guess I lost my cynicism, too. Thanks for reinstalling it.”

The door slides back a sliver. Her hand slaps against the metal like the crack of a whip.

“You want me to apologize, prove me wrong,” Natasha grounds through gritted teeth. 

Nick’s stare turns scalding. “I don’t need to prove  _ a thing _ \--”

“Last time I saw you, you said I wasn’t acting like a good person,” Natasha presses. “I said you were a fraud who didn’t care about finding people. Wouldn’t it be something if we were  _ both _ full of shit?”

Nick’s jaw clenches, snapping down on the retort he had aimed and ready. Teeth grind. Gears turn. Natasha takes another stab at pushing them in her favor. 

“Well? Do you still care about people who go missing in this town, or not? He’s got a  _ kid _ , Nick.”

Something flickers on his face, a flash of the fire he’d like to roast her on, maybe. Then, the gleam of his eyes seems to dull as his expression turns weary.

“Get inside,” he growls beneath his breath. 

He casts shifty, anxious eyes over her shoulder. Natasha doesn’t wait for a second invitation. She shivers when the door creaks shut and a gust of dusty air billows over the threshold. Nick brushes past her, shoulders hunched, and lips drawn in the hard edge of a frown. 

Natasha slouches into the seat across from Nick’s cluttered desk. The chair coughs a cloud of stuffing when she sits. Valentine Detective Agency is as unchanged as its proprietor. Rows of dented filing cabinets nestle against the walls. Piles of manila folders wheezing too many pages sprawl on every available surface. Dust and stale smoke mill through the air in a grainy haze.

Nick rifles around his drawers. At least  _ he _ can make some sense of this mess. Everything has its place. Yet, one agency fixture is conspicuously missing.

“Where’s Ellie?”

“Checking in on our  _ other  _ Nat. Someone has to, now that Piper can’t.”

She folds her hands in front of her and surveys him with a steely expression. The fire’s bound to die out, eventually, so long as she doesn’t feed it. Even though his flinty words beg for her to spark that old kindling again.

“So, you say you’re switching your stripes,” Valentine muses with a deepening scowl.

“I’m trying to take your advice. I didn’t go for the courser. Not yet.”

“No, you’re not running after the courser,” Valentine concedes. “Just running around with a Gunner instead.”

Natasha blinks. “ _ Ex _ -Gunner. You really must have missed me, if you’ve kept such close tabs.”

“Keep your friends _ close _ , as the saying goes,” Valentine grunts. “Young Nat was beside herself after her run in with you. It took some time to talk her down from storming right up to McDonough’s door.”

“Why is Nat still here if Piper’s not?”

“Something you could’ve asked Piper if you’d been back to Sanctuary any time in the last, oh, what has it been now? Nearly three months, if I’m not mistaken,  _ General _ ? Four?” 

Nick huffs on a freshly lit cigarette. Nat wonders, not for the first time, if it’s the nicotine the synth is really tasting, or only the memory of it. 

Her eyes drop to the desk. The sting is from the smoke, of course. She blinks. It takes a moment to clear from her vision. All the same, a heavy thickness coats her throat, and the rasp that comes out of it. “How’s Piper adjusting?”

A long pause presses between them. Long enough that the spill of cigarette smoke stokes the need to sate her own bad habit. She hunts for the pack in her bag.

“Well as she could be,” Nick answers eventually. “Sturges set her up with a specialized prosthetic. She’s...acclimating.”

It’s pity, that fibrous strain in his voice that makes the words softer than any he’s spoken to her thus far. Natasha glances up sheepishly. 

“Sometimes,” he sighs, “I wonder how your Minutemen must be getting on without you. Then I think about what it’s like to get on  _ with _ you. I guess you and I might agree on something after all.”

Natasha fingers rap against the lip of the desk. Their smoke rings furls between them, lingering like a personal stormcloud. 

“So you know what I’ve been up to, clearly,” Nat mutters.  _ What about you, Nicky? Still busy being ‘good people’? Real back-breaking work, it sounds like. _

She purses her lips harder, and swallows the taste of ashes setting on her tongue. “I would really love to keep playing catch-up but I’m more interested in catching who took my friend last night.”

“Yes, the  _ ex _ -Gunner. I can’t imagine who he managed to piss off,” Nick mutters snidely. “Still, it’s harder to believe the Gunners could get the jump on someone here and drag them off without a fuss. Someone would have noticed. City guard should have.”

Nat winces. “They do seem more trigger-happy these days.”

“You heard about that mess in the market?”

“I  _ witnessed _ that mess in the market,” Nat sighs. “The Institute’s still got everybody scared shitless around here.”

Nick leans back in his chair, frowning in thought. “You mentioned your merc’s got a kid.”

Natasha thumbs the shred of waxy paper in her pocket. “Yeah, he does.”

“They live around here?”

“No,” Nat answers at once. “Nowhere nearby.” 

Wherever Duncan is, it’s not the Commonwealth. Not if MacCready’s only line of communication to him is by caravan. Maybe there’s a letter heading here now. Or one already sitting back at Savoldi’s, passed along by Daisy in Goodneighbor. Destined to collect dust and go unanswered. Maybe it’s cinders by now, after the Gunners burned through Bunker Hill. 

Natasha swallows. “Why do you ask?”

“It seems there’s another boogeyman stalking the streets. Kidnappings started up in earnest while you and I were away, but they didn’t stop on my account when I got back to town. It’s street kids, mostly. Ones nobody seems to notice.”

Natasha blanches. “The Institute’s taking more kids?”   


“I’m not so sure,” Nick’s frown deepens, bending on the weathered plates of his face. “The Institute are experts at making people vanish. This perp isn’t so methodical. There’s always something, some evidence of a struggle. But not enough to lead anywhere.”

Dread spreads in her stomach like a black hole. She blinks, and she sees it again: blood on the floor of MacCready’s room. Soaking the wood. Wiped away in a clean line. Almost enough not to notice. 

“Our own differences aside,” Nick continues, “I hate to ask this, but...”

Natasha arches a brow. “ _ But? _ ”

“Are you  _ sure _ the opportunistic mercenary didn’t just tire of your thrilling company and take off without a proper goodbye?”

The obvious question hits her harder than it should, like a punch right in that festering pit consuming her insides. Then again, it could be the hangover taking her stomach for another turn. Natasha draws a steadying breath, rubbing at the relentless pulse in her forehead. 

“I  _ know _ he didn’t. I saw his room.”

“Sounds like something I’ll need to see for myself.”

Nat’s head jerks up. “You’ll help me?”

Valentine’s eyes narrow. “So long as you agree to my terms.”

“Which are?”

“Once this matter is settled, you and I are taking a trip to Sanctuary. Now, don’t mistake my meaning that we’re suddenly  _ chummy _ again. I only insist on going with you so I can believe you’ve actually gone.”

Natasha’s brow pinches. “That’s it? You just want me to  _ go _ to Sanctuary?”

It’s just a half-hint. A whisper of a whisper. The barest little lift, at the corner of his lips. Something that might be distantly related to a smile. “The first step to switching your stripes is to  _ look _ at them, you know.”

“Hm,” Nat groans. “ _ Fine _ .”

It’s not like she  _ meant _ to run out on the Minutemen. It’s just that… 

Natasha swallows another burn. It’s just that she meant to find her son. 

She meant to be back in Sanctuary with Shaun in a matter of weeks, not months. Meant to make good on her promises to Preston. Meant to find Nick, find Kellogg, and find Shaun in his clutches. Meant to put a bullet in the man who shot one through her husband’s chest.

And after, she meant to find answers from Dr. Amari. Meant to find them in the Glowing Sea. Meant to find the courser. Meant to find rock bottom, since it seemed so hellbent on crashing straight into her. Might as well meet it halfway. 

There’s a saying about good intentions and the road they pave. It’s probably one of Valentine’s favorite witticisms. A spiteful, humorless smile pulls taut on her lips. She cradles her throbbing head in her hands, studying the scuffs on her boots as they tap anxiously on the floor. Tangles in her chest match the ones her fingers twist in her hair. She studies the swirls in the woodgrain to settle her stomach. 

But she blinks, and she doesn’t see the knots in the panels. Just the memory of bloodstains seeping into the floor. The nausea sears in her stomach.

Something rattles nearby. Natasha peers up enough to notice the bucket being offered to her. Wordlessly, she takes it, hugging it to her chest. 

“So a night at the Dugout, huh?” Nick mutters sardonically. “Seems some stripes  _ haven’t _ changed. You’ll need to tell me what you can remember if we’re going to find this friend of yours.”

Natasha flashes a glare his way, quick like lightning. Her head’s ducked over the bucket a second later, taking any quip she might’ve fired with it. A few minutes later, he’s shoving something cold into her hands: a can of water. Natasha drinks it down eagerly. She feels herself crumple alongside the empty can beneath her boot.

Parsons swims to mind. Outside, that first breath of fresh air after escaping the elevator. The drink of water that tasted like melting back to life. 

It’s just a can of water. Nothing special. But he’d looked out for her. MacCready looked out for her. 

Natasha swallows past the acid in her throat. “I...I don’t remember everything.”

“ _ Try, _ ” Nick urges.

“We came. We drank. We conquered and were conquered. And when I woke up, Mac was gone.”

“That’s it?” Valentine studies her skeptically.

“That’s all you need to know,” Nat answers firmly.

He doesn’t need to know that name that dances on the tip of her tongue.  _ Lucy _ . She’s lost in the fade of Natasha’s memory. But Natasha can trace the steps to meet her there. Past the gates, where they met Dogmeat and Piper’s sister. Past the shootout at Takahashi’s. Through the door to the Dugout.

__________________________

“Oh man, I love this place. Vadim is a character,” MacCready says fondly.

“Yeah,” Natasha murmurs faintly, gaze sweeping over their surroundings. Of all the institutions of Diamond City,  _ this _ one, at least, remains the same. With Publick Occurrences shuttered, and Takahashi’s apparently a venue for family feuds as well as noodles, this might be the city’s last safe haven. Even so, late afternoon sees few barflies buzzing about the Dugout Inn. Only a handful of patrons indulge in drink and solitude. None of them bat an eye when MacCready and Natasha enter. 

Scratchy music crackles from an old radio perched alongside the worn collection of salvaged sofas and armchairs. Mismatched paintings and photographs hang lopsided here and there. Natasha knows better that the odd placement isn’t simply a product of Vadim’s artistic eye, but of Yefim’s practicality. Every one of the pictures hides at least  _ one _ hole in the walls. And of course, it wouldn’t be the Dugout without the impervious Port-A-Diner showing off its immortal piece of pie. The jury is still out on whether that thing is really just a hunk of plastic.

It takes a conscious effort for Natasha to stop tapping on her belt. The familiarity should breed comfort. But her heart hasn’t stopped barreling against her ribs since  _ she  _ barreled into MacCready in the marketplace. It would be nice to go through one meal without a fight for their lives. Those skewers in Bunker Hill don’t count; they don’t serve  _ food _ there, just necessary evils.

MacCready eyes her keenly. Natasha shifts beneath his stare. She doesn’t feel it until it’s already done. Instinctively, her shoulders ease back. A smile twitches on the edge of the mercenary’s mouth. Natasha swallows, shrugging out of her jacket and slinging it over a barstool. Always was stuffy in the Dugout.

The furniture isn’t the only thing that’s familiar. The bartender has his back to them when they slide into their seats. But when he turns around, the room fills with the warmth of Vadim’s hearty laughter.

“I cannot believe my eyes! My two favorite troublemakers!” Before either gets a word in edgewise, Vadim yells over his shoulder. “YEFIM! YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHO’S HERE!”

“I can see them, brother,” Yefim sighs defeatedly. “You do not have to yell. I am right next to you.”

“Aw, Vadim, I thought I was your favorite,” MacCready laments, nudging Natasha’s shoulder. “Didn’t realize I had competition.”

“No worries, tovarisch. Vadim can spread his love!” Vadim beams between them, settling his sights on Natasha. A pitying frown douses the brightness of his smile. “Lapochka, how are you? You look tired.”

Natasha brushes away his concern with a practiced smile. “Nothing a little moonshine can’t fix.”

“That’s the spirit!” Vadim sweeps up the handful of caps she passes over the counter before moseying around the bar to retrieve the swill that shares his family name. 

Yefim interjects while his brother fetches their drinks. “Will it be one or two rooms?”

“One,” she answers immediately. 

Her fingers curl against the lip of the counter. Something to stop them from slapping across her own mouth. The reasons bubble to her lips, but not fast enough to stop the burn on her cheeks. 

“ _ Two. _ ” MacCready eyes her sideways. “Sorry, sweetheart, you’re gonna have to buy me dinner first.”

“They  _ do _ have that here,” she offers weakly. It doesn’t shake MacCready's scrutiny. Yefim clears his throat deliberately.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Look, I don’t want to get stabbed in my sleep, all right?”

Something softens in MacCready’s stature. She catches it from the corner of her eye, since she still can’t quite turn to face him. No need to make it more than it is. 

“Relax,” MacCready murmurs. “This is Diamond City we’re talking about. Not many safer places to sleep.”

“You say that, but we almost got shot in the market,” Natasha mutters. 

MacCready shrugs. “So this place got a  _ little  _ more exciting. You said it yourself, nothing a good drink can’t fix, right?”

“Two, then,” Yefim mutters, hastily passing over the keys and taking his leave of them.

Natasha stews in silence. Vadim sets a pair of shot glasses in front of them. She eyes the liquid warily. But any better judgment is stifled by the burn of booze searing down her throat. Vadim barks a laugh when she sputters after swallowing. Cheerfully, he passes a pitcher of water for a chaser. MacCready doesn’t fare much better. He yanks the pitcher from her grip the second she’s set it down, burying a cough in his sleeve.

Vadim lingers, still grinning from ear to ear. “Ah, MacCready! Tovarisch, It’s been far too long! How is Lucy? She still as beautiful as I remember?”

Natasha’s eyes snap from the counter to MacCready. He swallows again, slowly. The color fades from his face.

“No,” he breathes eventually. “She didn’t make it, Vadim.”

Natasha averts her gaze from MacCready, studying the gleam of bottles past Vadim’s shoulder. An ache twists suddenly sharp in her ribs.  _ Lucy _ . 

Natasha’s eyes slink down to the gleam of the wedding band on her left hand, still white-knuckling the countertop. A wife, maybe. Or a lover. But those are what Lucy used to be. Not what she  _ is _ .

She’s a loss. 

The name drops on MacCready like a hammer to an anvil. His shoulders hunch, as if to brace against it. There’s a tempered sort of grief in his voice. Forged a long time ago, maybe. But that impact still kicks, a shudder of something that shaped him into what he is. 

The survivor.

Natasha doesn’t look at MacCready. Doesn’t need to. She knows the face he’s wearing like the back of her hand.

Vadim stutters out an apology. “I’m sorry, mouth tends to be faster than brain. Tell you what: I give you a drink on the house, for old times.”

“Thanks,” Mac murmurs. He tries and fails to bury the hoarseness coloring his tone.“You were always a real stand-up kind of guy, Vadim.”

Vadim leaves them with fresh liquor in their cups. There’s a place to hide at the bottom of those glasses. Natasha lifts her drink and her eyes to MacCready.

“Look,” he sighs tightly. “I don’t want to talk--” 

“To the best shot in the Commonwealth,” Natasha toasts. “And to taking a gigantic shit on the Gunners.”

There’s another ghost on his face. A would-be smile. Just there for the space of a few seconds. Gone in a blink.

He raises his glass to clink with hers. “To one heck of a team.”

When their drinks are drained, Natasha passes caps for another round. And another. And another.

Until the color finds its way back to MacCready’s cheeks. And the strength seeps back into his voice. And the smug smile hangs crooked off his face. The one that actually reaches his eyes. Bluest thing she’s ever seen.

Another round. Until the room spins while she’s sitting still. 

__________________________

Natasha tugs on the borrowed cap to shadow her eyes. She feels conspicuous, standout as a stain, even in fresh clothes filched from Nick’s collection of lost-but-never-founds. Her fingers fidget on her belt where Kellogg’s pistol normally rests. She feels the chill of the barrel tucked into her waistline, raising shivers in its wake. In the height of day, the Dugout hosts few faces. Even so, she sweeps a careful eye over each of them.

“Someone has to remember seeing something, even if you don’t,” Nick murmurs. 

Natasha chews the inside of her cheek. Whoever took MacCready had to know he wasn’t here alone. They waited until he was. And didn’t care enough to snatch her up, too. It was personal, not random. 

But Nick’s logic points to more questions than answers. Begrudgingly, Nat knows he’s right on one count. Diamond City’s hardly the place for Gunners to go parading through the streets unnoticed. 

But a back alley…

“I’ll take a look at that room of his and chat with a few of these fine patrons, see what I can find,” Nick says. “You should get our proprietors to show you around out back, if you can. Whoever took your merc, it’s unlikely they dragged him out the front door.”

“Room two, around the corner,” she murmurs to Nick. “Meet you back in a few.”

Natasha drifts towards the hallway, then stops abruptly short. A small chalkboard hangs lopsided from its hook in the wall. A crisp, clean heading reads: ‘Borbov’s Best Moonshine Masters’. Natasha has to squint and tilt her head to make out the names of the most recent title-holders. The letters are smushed to nonsense near the end. Even so, Mack Marie and Nadia Salami live in chalkdust infamy.

A small smile quirks on her lips, and fades just as quickly.

__________________________

“If you do this, my friends, you may die, it’s true,” Vadim shrugs. “But if you live, you will live as _ legends! _ ” 

“Well? What do you say, partner?” MacCready’s grin is all mischief. The gleam in his eyes is ten times the trouble. Natasha groans. His smile pulls wider.

Natasha leans an arm on the bar. The heat of her cheek burns against her palm. She peers back at her single-minded companion with an overdrawn sigh and a heavier scowl. “I thought we were gonna plan someone else’s death tonight, not ours.”

MacCready sinks forward, mirroring her position with his jaw propped on the heel of his hand. The troublesome twinkle in his eye turns soft, pleading. His sly smirk morphs to puffed and pouty lips.

_ Shit.  _ Natasha swallows. He’s better at that then she is. Almost. But there’s that bite of grief he can’t quite bury. The one that still swims over his face when he thinks she’s looking the other way. Something raw and ragged in the flashy smiles that fade too fast. 

“Aw c’mon,” Mac prods. “He already poured! Don’t make me take both.”

Vadim barks a laugh. “Then we’d have to hide his body! Nobody wants that.”

“Yeah, Nat, nobody wants that,” Mac echoes, nudging her shoulder for emphasis. Natasha slides in her seat. MacCready reaches for her wrist to steady her. For a second, the pad of his thumb brushes feather-light across her knuckles. 

Something buzzes in the back of her brain. Travis’ prattling intro. A new song on the radio. The hazy, humid, alcohol bubble that’s left her cheeks warm and rosy. Or maybe just the strange softness of an unexpected touch. She teeters again on the barstool, bracing herself with a vice grip on the counter.

“We’ll save the murder and mayhem for tomorrow, killer,” MacCready promises. “We’re being  _ legends  _ tonight.”

“The things I do for a friend in need,” Natasha groans sullenly. Resigned to her fate, she reluctantly reaches for her third and final dose of Bobrov’s Best. One way or another, she’s sure it’s her last.

Down the hatch. She gags against the burn that flares in her throat and sparks in her eyes. On second thought, maybe number two was the last one, after all. She clamps a hand across her mouth, choking down a hard swallow, and feels the fire slide down her gullet. MacCready’s laughing as he shoves the water pitcher her way. She reaches for it, hastily glugging to douse the flames festering in her stomach. 

When she comes up for air, the room slants sideways. Or, at least the weight of her head wilts that way. Natasha groans, resting her cheek on the sticky bartop. Not sanitary. But suddenly  _ so _ comfy. And the prospect of peeling herself from it seems a mountain far too arduous to climb. They took the poison, now their bodies are Vadim’s problem, anyway. Natasha’s lids grow weighty. The Dugout blurs to cozy darkness when they slide shut. 

There. No more teeter-totter floor. No more dizzy head spinning or stomach tossing. Just her own pulse in her ear mingled with the familiar rhythm playing on the radio. A staccato thrum tickles her cheek against the countertop. Somebody’s tapping along.

And  _ humming _ . Natasha peels one eye open to spy who’s intruding on her untimely resting place. 

MacCready picks up volume and lyrics as he crosses an ill-fated bridge into a shaky falsetto. His voice cracks on the high note that’s just a pinch far for him to reach. The shrill tune jolts her from the counter like an electric shock.

For a moment, nausea hits her like whiplash. It’s not enough to stem the tide of laughter shaking her from head to toe. Nat buries a snort behind her hand. 

“Wha -- hey!” MacCready attention snaps to her. For a moment, his mouth hangs agape, eyes blown wide like a deer in headlights. A surly scowl wrinkles over his face.

“Whatever,” he grouses. “It’s catchy. Got stuck in my head, all right? Like to hear you do better.”

Natasha snickers, flashing him a wicked smile. Now  _ that’s _ a bet she could win. Her stomach roils. If the numbness on her skin is any indicator, that third shot is setting in. Time will tell if she’ll win  _ that _ challenge. The odds seem slimmer as the minutes tick by.

The song changes. Half-heartedly, he patters out the rhythm on the side of the glass. MacCready’s sights have sunken to his empty cup. No more spirits to lift his own. That youth crackling in his voice from moments before has fled in favor of the worn lines beneath his eyes. 

She chews the inside of her cheek. ‘Like to hear you do better,’ he said.  _ You already are _ .

Last time she was in this town, Travis ran her through a dozen old tapes. Too scratchy to play over the radio in their tarnished condition, but well enough for her to lend her voice to their recreation. 

Natasha frets at the flaking label of an empty bottle. The Commonwealth still hasn’t figured out  _ food _ or cars or reliable electricity and clean water in some places. But hey, they’ve got ‘ _ Vogue _ ’ now.

Natasha Sokolova: attorney-at-law, sole survivor searching for a son she still hasn’t found, absent General to the Commonwealth Minutemen. And...Madonna impressionist.  _ That’s _ her legacy. 

If it gets the moody mercenary next to her smiling again, she could do worse. A  _ lot _ worse. 

Natasha tugs a bottle a breath away from her lips, wraps her hands around her makeshift microphone, and croons with the confidence of an opossum doped on psycho.

Like a shot fired, the noise jerks patrons from their cups and locks all eyes on her. Natasha feels them burn against her back, but she only sees MacCready. The other shapes past his should blur and blend to brown in the wake of his bright eyes ogling at her, and the brilliant, shit-eating grin dawning on his face. 

MacCready cracks with a snort. “You sing like a constipated brahmin!”

“Lapochka,  _ please! _ ” Vadim shuffles towards them, expression pained. “Stop that racket! You’re scaring my customers!”

Natasha shoots MacCready a wink, bending her head back to belt the chorus. The chair leg squeaks sharply against the wood. The seat slides from beneath her. Natasha sprawls to the floor, crashing right into --  _ MacCready _ ?

Mac grimaces, rubbing the back of his head where it smacked the bar counter. His arms loop loose around her waist, where he’d tried and failed to catch her. Slowly, her fingers unfurl from the collar of his duster, where she’d caught  _ him _ . Her eyes trace up from the bob of his Adam’s apple to the echo of laughter still lighting up his eyes. The levies won’t hold. They fall back into shaking snickers against the counter.

“Ah, man,” MacCready wipes the tears from his eyes. “Now I know how we’re gonna kill the Gunners. Just get you a megaphone.” The thought’s enough to send him into a fresh fit. Nat feels his body quake where his shoulder rests against hers. 

Numbly, she feels a smug smirk pulling on her lips. She pokes experimentally at a puffy cheek. Nerve endings must be dead. Blame it on the moonshine that’s got her wearing a drunk and dopey smile. Maybe her face is stuck like this. Something throbs near her hip. A fresh bruise, sure to blossom in the morning. Natasha blinks, but the room won’t settle. The floor seems to ripple like a wave. 

MacCready slides to rest his back against the counter, legs splayed out in front of him. Natasha follows suit. All in all, not the worst place she’s been stuck. 

Somewhere above them, Vadim clicks his tongue. “ _ Never _ underestimate Bobrov’s moonshine!”

__________________________

Natasha rubs at the bare skin of her ring finger. Frowning, she presses past the sign memorializing those drunken escapades. 

The sound of sweeping carries her past the room where she woke alone this morning. The hangover still pounds on her skull like Vadim’s fist against the door. 

An ache in her chest echoes back the memory of how she stumbled to that door. Last night, when she wasn’t alone, but so lonely it made her sick. Nothing Nick needed to know. Something she wished she didn’t, either.

__________________________

  
  


“Carry me,” Natasha groans. The floorboards warp beneath her feet. She staggers down the hall, scraping against the corner as she goes.

“Nah,  _ killlller, _ you got this!” MacCready bumbles along behind her, slurring sleepily. “You climb a two story into bed all the time!”

Natasha thumps against the opposite wall. She claws the peeling paneling for purchase, but finds none. There’s no taxi to haul her home, so she settles for hailing a guilt trip instead. It’s a far more favorable avenue than pinballing her way to her room with the walls as bumpers.

“Mac, you made me take that last shot,” she grumbles. 

“Fine, c’mhere, I got you,” he mutters. Warm hands slide around her waist. Stubble scrapes against her neck. For a second, her breath falters alongside her footing. 

And then, she’s hoisted from the ground, feet kicking feebly through empty air. But a moment later, they’re slanting towards the very same wall she’d clung to.

Nat squirms in his grip. “You filthy liar! You don’t ‘got me’ at all!”

Mac’s protest is buried in the impact. Natasha catches her breath, looks up, and then loses it all over again.

Those warm hands still wrap around her waist, drawing them chest to chest. Natasha blinks, and watches MacCready’s eyes slide down to her mouth, parted and panting. Skin slides beneath her fingertips and suddenly she’s aware of her hands, woven together behind his neck. For something to hold onto. Someone to hold onto. 

His face hovers inches away. Heartbeats and hard breaths pass between them. She tastes the alcohol they poisoned themselves with. Feels the heat of his body, flush against hers, as they chase after wayward oxygen. Smells the hint of pine and smoke that lingers near his neck. Feels the sandpapery roughness along her thumb that traces down the line of his jaw.

It feels good, to feel something that’s not so miserable. To feel someone.

MacCready stiffens beneath her touch. Their eyes meet, and it’s familiar, that look he’s wearing. The one that wears a person down to an edge, until something else sands it off. It’s lost. It’s lonely. It scrapes too sharply.

Natasha’s hands fall away. 

But MacCready’s don’t. Rough thumbs find the edge of her jaw. And for a moment, it’s rough  _ enough _ . They could forget all about those ragged edges. Fling themselves off of one. For a moment, she wants to.

They share another breath. One that feels far too heavy. Like smacking into concrete.

He wets his lips. Natasha takes the last word before he can.

“G’night,” she mutters, peeling from the wall.

There’s fumbling and floundering for keys and sometime later, maybe minutes, maybe hours, Natasha blinks and it’s a real mirror she’s looking into. Half cracked and scratched and grimy, clinging to the wall above a ceramic sink that’s just as weathered. She blinks, and sees the scratches on the glass settled over her skin like scars. Sees herself in full reflection: bruised and scuffed and barely holding on to something solid.   


Except for something shiny gleaming on her finger. It doesn’t belong. Natasha slides her wedding ring off, feels the breath rattle in her ribcage, and falls into the wheezing mattress. 

__________________________

Yefim eyes Natasha warily. “Well,” he sighs, “at least we don’t actually have to hide your body. Got enough mess to clean as it is. Vadim is no help, as usual.”   
  
Natasha offers an empty smile. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“Try telling  _ him _ that,” Yefim sniffs.

Natasha catches movement from the corner of her eye: another patron shuffling down the hall. Better safe than sorry. She drops her volume, and the English. Yefim raises a curious brow, but doesn’t comment on the change.

“Yefim, did you see Mac talking with anyone else last night?”

Yefim rolls his eyes. “He seemed  _ occupied _ with the noisy woman next to him.”

Natasha bypasses the bait. “Yeah, he lost his hat, though, and we’ve been looking for it,” she fibs. “Thought we’d retrace some steps, but you know how it is with moonshine memory. Mac said he might’ve stepped out back to have a smoke. Mind showing me where that is?”

“That’s not for customers,” Yefim grumbles. “Vadim is always letting people hang around back. This is why we get robbed!”

“You’ve been getting robbed?”

“Probably Vadim is just pinching more than his share,” Yefim mutters moodily. “Fine, I’ll show you.”

A utility door lets out into a narrow alley. Yefim, surly and disinterested, ushers her through and returns to his sweeping. 

Every footstep is a wet  _ squish _ in the muck. Natasha grimaces as an acrid, rotting stench rises to greet her. A sewer pipe gurgles between two overpiled dumpsters. It’s not rainwater wetting the dirty trail that winds behind the businesses and storefronts. The upper stands overhead cast the muddy backstreet in permanent shadow. Diamond City’s finer folk won’t have their own shit soil their sterling view.

Natasha picks her way past manhole covers and drainage outlets, boots slopping as she goes. The alley curves halfway round the city, past thin passes into the main avenues, behind brick buildings and sheltered from prying eyes. Sure, Mac might’ve come this way. There’s footsteps sunken into the dirt, dozens of them. Some of them are smeared together, as if someone was dragged. Natasha follows the path to the collection of dumpsters just a few feet away. She sighs tightly.

Okay, so maybe the someone getting dragged was really  _ something _ . Wrinkling her nose, she takes a quick peek inside the garbage heap before recoiling. Nope, no missing mercs in there. Smells like something died, though. Much longer out here, and she might keel over herself. Hacking into her sleeve, Natasha covers her nose and plods back towards the Dugout. 

Nick’s waiting inside, eyeing the state of her shoes critically. “Any luck?”

“Not much,” Nat grunts. “It’s just sewage and garbage back there now. Leads around half the city, though. I hope you found more than I did.”

Nick hesitates, shifting his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. 

Natasha’s eyes narrow. “What is it?”   
  
“Talked to a few bystanders that say they saw a pair of city guards with a fellow matching your merc’s description,” Valentine answers reluctantly. “I can understand what it looks like, having seen his room. I know he’s an  _ ex- _ Gunner, changed man and all, but that doesn’t mean he’s walking the straight and narrow. Could’ve gotten caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Could be sitting in lock up as we speak.”

Natasha pushes out a hiss of frustration. It doesn’t make any sense. Less than twenty-four hours they stood in this town before Mac went missing. Mac was next to her for the bulk of it. What did he do, steal an extra helping from Power Noodles? Swipe caps from Myrna in the market?    
  
The knots in her stomach twist tighter. It’s not the answer, it can’t be. Mac wouldn’t have gotten  _ caught _ .

“Let’s go see what these guards have to say for themselves,” Natasha sighs.

__________________________

It’s not exactly relief that washes over Natasha, standing in the stark concrete of the Diamond City Security Office, seeing no one she recognizes behind those metal bars. There’s a balding man with an ill-fitted cheshire smile, and a woman sitting in sweat and shivers towards the back of a cell, but no blue-eyed mercenaries. Her skin crawls as bloodshot eyes pour over her. Natasha turns her back to the inmates, and focuses back on their armored sentinel.

Nick speaks to the familiar face caged behind an umpire’s mask. “Any idea of who was on duty near the Dugout last night, Danny?” 

Sullivan shifts uneasily. “Yeah,” he sighs. “That’d be Roy and Hatchet, two of the  _ new guys _ . Big, bulky fellas, right?”

“So I’ve heard,” Nick replies, lips pursed. “Do they happen to be around?”

“Not around  _ here _ ,” Sullivan frowns. “There’s certainly enough  _ room _ for them to be, but the Mayor set them up in their own space.”

Natasha’s brow pinches. “Seems he’s really beefed up security recently.”

“Yeah, and I’m just peachy with that,” Sullivan answers earnestly. “Just don’t get why the new recruits are getting special treatment but, ah, you didn’t hear that from me, all right?”

“Special treatment?” Valentine presses.

“Forget I said anything,” Sullivan waves him off. “Look, they’re some sort of ex-merc or military types. Highly trained and highly qualified. McDonough hired ‘em on, and my life’s been pretty simple ever since. So what if they get their own swanky set up? Streets have never been cleaner or safer, and the city’s better for it.”

Natasha’s eyes flash to Valentine’s.  _ Safe for everyone except those missing kids. _ Kids no one much misses, it seems. So long as the streets are  _ clean _ . 

“Look,” Danny sighs, scribbling on a scrap of paper. “You wanna go talk to them, here’s the address. But they’re not exactly the chatty type.”

Nick recoils slightly, eyes flitting over the address on the page. 

Natasha scowls, peering past his shoulder. “ _ Seriously? _ ”

__________________________

“Well,” Nick clears his throat as their boots clink softly on the metal steps, “at least there’s no need to commit breaking and entering this time.”

Natasha’s heart boxes against her ribs. It could’ve been any other house. Any other address. Any other corrugated metal box painted army green. But no, it had to be  _ this _ one.

Kellogg’s old apartment lies ahead. Maybe the rust has claimed more of the scraped up siding, but otherwise, it stands, unchanged, as she remembers. A sudden inertia weighs in her steps as they near that fateful door. 

Valentine casts a cursory glance in her direction. “You all right? I know this place must stir up some unpleasant memories.”

Natasha nods, jaw set tightly. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Without further preamble, Valentine does the honors of rapping on the metal door. Not long after, there’s sounds of shuffling from the other side, followed by thumping footsteps.

“Let me do the talking,” Valentine murmurs to Natasha. “You keep your eyes peeled. Something’s off about this, and you and I are gonna find out what.”

Natasha doesn’t answer. Her fingers tap in tandem on her belt. The door before them whines open on parched hinges. An imposing figure blocks the spill of orange light that emanates from within. Natasha blinks, adjusting to the sudden brightness from the evening dim settling over the city. Another burly, looming shadow with a caged face stands before them. 

“The hell do you want?” The man grunts, turning his head between them “ _ Citizens _ ,” he adds, a compulsory afterthought. 

Natasha soaks in the sight of him with a deepening frown. He’s got the garb of a city guard, and the leer of something sterner, but he doesn’t have the talk down pat. Not quite. 

Nick squints at the badge on the guard’s vest. “Officer Roy, just the man we needed to see. I’m Detective Valentine, and this here is an associate of mine. I was hoping to speak to you and your colleague, Officer Hatchet, about a disturbance at the Dugout Inn last night. Officer Sullivan indicated the two of you were on duty at the time.”

Between the bars on Roy’s face, Natasha catches the glint of a grin that’s missing a few pieces. “Guess you better come in then.” He presses his back to the door, stepping aside just enough for space to slip through. 

Nat doesn’t dare a glance at Nick, aware of keen eyes like scorch marks burning on her face. She follows behind Nick through the door, wincing at the prickle of nerves flitting down her spine when it creaks shut and then sealed with a slam.

Roy barks behind them. “Hatchet! The clockwork dick wants to ask us some stuff.”

From the loft above, a second grunt answers. “Thought McDonough said--”

“We’re just gonna talk to him. Sure it won’t take long. We’ll wind him up and send him back on his way.”

Nick buries the scowl twisting on his lips, and Natasha buries a cough in her elbow. A staggering stench permeates the air. It’s earthy, but acidic, like rot. Decay. 

The familiar scene blurs for a moment while she wipes the sting from her eyes. Boots caked in sludge line the wall by the door. Much of the furniture has been tossed or pushed aside in favor of simple cots, laid in rows. A table and a pair of chairs stand near the space where a sofa and a television used to dwell.

The space where Shaun used to sit, and Kellogg kept his prisoner under careful watch. 

“Sit,” Roy sneers, letting the word sizzle on his tongue. It snaps her back to present.

Reluctantly, Natasha and Nick do as he commands, sinking into chairs with their backs to the door. Roy leans leisurely against the wall, thumbing the wheel of a lighter to no end. He lets the flame flicker for a moment each time before it falters, and then sparks it back to life once more. The sound grates like static. 

_ Flick. Click. Flick. Click. _

Hatchet lumbers down the steps from the loft. Natasha’s eyes flash to the back of a buzzcut. For just a moment, it’s bare to the air. Natasha leans forward in her seat. If he just turns slightly, she’ll catch his face. 

She doesn’t get the chance. By the time he’s reached the bottom, the umpire mask is fitted around his head. Natasha slumps back, eyes seeping over their surroundings as Hatchet comes to plant his hands down on the table in front of them. Her gaze lingers on the base of the stairs behind him, on the muddy stamp of his shoe that marks the ground.

“Ask your questions,” he mutters, not bothering to seat himself. 

Nick clears his throat. “You apprehended a gentleman by the name of Robert MacCready from the Dugout last night. We’d like to know where he’s being held, and on what charges.”

Natasha grimaces. Not a card she would have played, putting Mac’s name on the table. 

Roy sniffs a laugh that scrapes like drag on pavement. “MacCready ain’t a _ gentleman. _ ”

_ Flick, click, flick, click  _ with that damn lighter. Her fingertips rap against her belt in a parallel pattern.

Nick presses him further. “For what charges was he apprehended?”

Hatchet answers. Natasha catches the gleam of his eyes studying her as he does. “Caught him swiping something that wasn’t his. Kicked that  _ gentle man _ to the curb. Ran off with his tail between his legs. He’s not coming back for you, doll.”

_ Flick. Click. Flick. Click. _ Nick never mentioned Nat was with Mac that night. 

But they  _ know _ all the same. It’s in that half-obscured sneer snaking over the lips underneath that mask. It’s in their voices when they speak, woven into half-baked lies that smell stale from just one whiff. 

Natasha’s tapping ceases as her fingers curl into the meat of her palm beneath the table. She nudges it slightly with her knee. It moves readily, easily. Light. Flimsy, even with those burly hands planted on its surface across from her.

Nick won’t be so easily dissuaded. “Eye witness accounts say MacCready appeared to be injured--”

“He was fine,” Roy interjects. “Just slumped over dumb and drunk. Moonshine will do that to you. Messes with your memory.”

_ Flick. Click. Flick. Click.  _ Somewhere, up above, Natasha catches a rustle of movement. Her eyes flicker to the underside of the loft, spying the shift of fabric through the gaps in the boards. Good to know there’s three of them. 

Valentine scoffs. “Never known a man to be much of a runner while drunk and passed out.”

That noxious stench curls in the air. Natasha wrinkles her nose.

“That’s what happened,” Hatchet snaps sharply. His hands lift from the table, forming fists as he looms over them. “What happens next is you’re gonna get the hell out and let the hard-working officers of your city guard do their fucking jobs. This ain’t the shit we get paid for. You can go whine to McDonough.”

_Flick. Click._ **BANG.**

“What the -- _ shit! _ ”

Roy smears bloody against the wall. Natasha grips the lip of the table and shoves up and back. The table flips, smacking Hatchet in the chest. He staggers backwards, fumbling for the shotgun at his side. Natasha fires again, and it clatters to the ground. 

Frantic footsteps stumble down the steps. Natasha levels Kellogg’s pistol and fires a third shot. His body slumps, lifeless, down the remaining steps.

Heart hammering against her ribs, Natasha jerks forward, ripping the mask from Hatchet’s head. There it is, on his cheekbone. A nametag far more telling than the one on his vest: B +, tattooed below his eye like a teardrop.

“I  _ fucking _ knew it,” she spits. “Gunners. They’re Gunners.”

Nick stammers, standing with a hand clamped on the overturned table to steady himself. “How did you---?”

“They knew too much about Mac and I. They must’ve been watching us last night,” Natasha sighs, slouching back from the body.

“That’s not what I was referring to,” Nick blinks at her, shellshocked. “That was some damn good aim.”

Natasha feels a faint prickle of pride beneath his searing stare. “Yeah, well, I’ve been practicing.”

Something sharp lances in her chest.  _ Had a good teacher. The best, even.  _

“That might be the understatement of the century. Surprised to see you’re still packing that same piece,” Nick gestures towards Kellogg’s pistol.

“It’s good at what it does,” Natasha shrugs, shoving it back in its holster. “Anyway, besides the fact everything they said stank of bullshit, it literally reeks in here. Like a back alley. Maybe the one I was in earlier.”

Nick stoops besides the boot prints pressed in the floor. He swipes his finger over the muck, scowling. “Sewage. So, that’s how they’re smuggling folks out. Don’t need to get around the guard when they  _ are _ the guard. No need to worry about witnesses down in the pipes, either.”

“They could tell we didn’t believe them,” Nat says. “But they didn’t care. Which means there’s enough of them here that they don’t have to.”

“It’s a flimsy facade,” Nick agrees. “One the Mayor himself commissioned, it seems. Which tells me you and I better think fast and move faster. We’re not going to be alone here for long. It’s a shame we had to  _ shoot  _ now instead of later.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow. “I suppose we could’ve done  _ nothing _ and that would have gotten us  _ nowhere _ .”

Nick scoffs indignantly. “We could’ve  _ followed _ them--”

“Well we can’t now,” Natasha snaps. “So hurry up and help me!”   
  
She stoops to the discolored floorboards, set in the same place where Kellogg’s desk used to rest. The desk isn’t there anymore. But the lever is. Natasha shoves the loose wood away, and yanks. The segment of wall shifts with a rusty groan, revealing the room hidden behind. 

Natasha’s eyes rake over their find: enough guns to outfit a small army. Too many to steal, but she sweeps the packs of ammo into her bag all the same. At the back of the room, Valentine hunches over a flickering terminal.

“What’s the play?” 

Nick huffs a sigh.“I’m not sure. The sewers are a labyrinth, and the Gunners might have connected them to their bigger network. Those rats have a fondness for burrowing into old subway tunnels. If there’s a shot at finding your friend, it has to happen now. Before the good mayor moves on  _ us _ , and before the Gunners move your merc out of our reach.”

“Does it say when?”

“One hour until the move. Minutes ‘til the next shift change.”

A sudden bout of dizziness sways her. It’s almost poetic, the uncanny symmetry. She swallows to wet the dryness gathering at the back of her throat. “I’ve got Mac’s hat. Dogmeat can pick up the scent once we’re in the sewers.”

“Now  _ that’s _ an idea,” Nick replies. “And if the Gunners are so entrenched in this town, it explains the rash of missing kids. I’ll have Ellie stay over with Piper’s sister tonight and leave town for Sanctuary tomorrow. I won’t let Nat be one of them.”

Natasha’s brow knits together. “What do---”

Her voice breaks off brittle. She sees it, over Valentine’s shoulder. A list blinks on the screen. Itemized like groceries. 

_ Female, Age 8. Male, Age 12. Male, Age 5. Male, Age 22.  _

_ Divert shipment to Mass Pike Interchange per request from Winlock and Barnes. _

She takes a shallow breath. “Are those…?”

“Our missing kids. And your missing merc.”

It spreads spidery in her veins, like frost on a window pane. Ice, in her lungs, in her chest, sharp like pinpricks beneath her skin. Natasha grips the metal shelving. It slips beneath her clammy palms. She shivers. 

Valentine’s lip curls. “It’s their favorite commodity, aside from violence: human beings. Children, when they can get their hands on them. The Gunners are notorious for it. They sell them off as slave labor.”

Nick glances up sharply. She knows he caught it, that push of air from her lungs. Like someone stomped down on her chest and forced it to leave. His eyes flicker over her, filled with concern. Gentleness. Sympathy.  _ Pity _ . Things that make her skin crawl. Like the idea that  _ Mac  _ might’ve---

“You said your friend was an  _ ex _ -Gunner,” Nick says softly.

Natasha’s fidgeting fingers find that shred of paper in her pocket. A piece of Mac. A piece of Duncan. A piece of a family that needs to be reunited. 

A piece of a stranger that felt...familiar.

“He’s a father,” she says eventually.

Nick squeezes her shoulder. “Let’s get him home. We’ll head to my office and grab anything we might need. No matter how this shakes out, I have a sneaking suspicion that you and I will have to skip town for a while.”

The choked sound that crackles out of her was meant to be a laugh. Valentine eyes her skeptically. 

Another corner of the map in her rearview. Maybe they’ll leave this one without the smoke and flames. Doubtful, judging by the mess of dead mercenaries leaking on the ground.

The joke isn't funny anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read and enjoyed, feel free to feed the writer a kudos or comment. You can find me on Tumblr @adventuresofmeghatron.
> 
> Stay safe and take care of yourselves. Thank you so much for reading <3


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